Glasslands to Swamplands
by Codename-SURGEON
Summary: The colony world of Mesa is a glassed wasteland. Operators of the Liang-Dortmund Corporation work year after year to make the planet livable again through hellish conditions. Then, an assault on a isolated outpost by a technologically inferior force leads to casualties and a disruptive investigation of a connection between worlds.
1. Chapter 1: Pariah of Glass

**A/N: This is my second story on this site and although for now it's unrelated to my first story, Exodus of the Damned, it shares a similar timeline that splits off after Halo 4 simply out of convenience not because of any ill feelings towards Halo 5. I just don't feel like messing with a developing plotline in that regard. In fact I'm borrowing heavily from Halo 5.**

 **Anyways, here you go.**

/

Chapter 1: Pariah of Glass

September 24, 2580

When people think or hear about glass, what do they think about? Silicate sand roasted molten in a kiln to be poured or blown into works of art, or transparent window panes for all to see through?

Regardless of what anyone claimed or said of glass, the residents of the planet Mesa had a name and description rolled into a single word for glass indigenous to their own breed of human: Hellspawn. Mesa was coated in a layer of glassy material that was the product of heat so intense the planet's surface had simply melted down to glass. The source of that heat was plasma ejected from the prow of invading warships.

Warships belonging to an alien theocracy known as the Covenant, who'd declared humanity an affront to their deities and waged genocide against the species. Only after three decades of defensive warfare did humanity defeat the Covenant by striking at their leadership, toppling the whole machine. However, the cost of victory was unimaginably high.

Mesa was included in that cost. Out of a prewar population of 219 million individuals only half a quarter of that number could still claim to be born and raised on Mesa. And today fewer than a couple dozen survivors actually lived on Mesa.

The planet itself was completely barren. As far as the eye could see a special kind of wasteland solemnly known as glasslands stretched. But all was not truly dead anymore. Humanity, surviving the War, had returned to Mesa, albeit that return was limited.

/

James Oz crouched low on the roof of a squat prefabricated barrack building with a plasma cutter in hand, the hydraulic servos of his bulky hardsuit hissing with every movement of his knees. All around him a glass storm raged. Winds caused by Mesa's ravaged atmosphere could peak up to 300 kilometers per hour and almost always carried clouds of finely pulverized glass. Similar in effect to ancient Earth sandstorms, glass storms were deadly to the exposed. One unprotected breath during a storm was a guaranteed lungful of powdered glass, suffocation, and death within minutes. Such was life on a glassed planet.

The community in which James Oz lived was walled and situated on a relatively flat plateau. The wall itself crafted out of warship grade titanium was twice as tall as most of the village's structures and was intended to protect the village from the larger chunks of glass that tended to fly along the ground during storms. But sometimes the wall couldn't keep everything out as was the case with the air-filtration vent James was tasked with repairing.

A long tubular piece of glass had flown over the wall and embedded itself into the vent cover, skewering the filter and tripping a whole host of safety systems. As soon as it happened the air ducts connected to the vent were isolated and closed, the maintenance department was notified, and James Oz was dispatched to fix it. If left unattended particles of glass would continuously fill up the air ducts and leave a brutal and ungodly mess to clean up after the storm. So fixing it then and there was the accepted procedure and James was well equipped for it.

His hardsuit was specifically designed for operating in glass storms. The outer layer was composed of overlapping plates of ceramic alloy designed to withstand high impacts. Just under the plates was a air tight layer of titanium and nano-laminate weave on top of a reactive gel layer designed to regulate temperature and fit meaning just about anyone could wear the same suit. Integrated computer systems in control of the suit's hydraulics were connected directly into James's brain via wireless neural interface allowing the suit to actually move with James instead of James having to move the otherwise 200 kilogram hardsuit himself. The helmet was constructed mostly the same, vacuum sealed, included half a dozen individual air filters along the lower jawline, and the visor was green in color. To improve the suit's visibility in storm conditions the suit had a color scheme of reflective neon white and orange.

James didn't even grunt from the minimal exertion of yanking off the compromised vent cover exposing the damaged air filter and the offending piece of glass. Undoubtedly, glass particles was now pouring into the air ducts at an exponential rate but the inevitable cleanup still wouldn't be as bad as if the problem was ignored until the storm died down.

Disconnecting and removing the broken filter was easy enough. Installing the new undamaged filter was equally simple. Switching the plasma cutter for a welding tool, James placed the new vent cover into place and in a matter of minutes it was securely welded down. The vent would remain shut until the storm ended and the ducts were cleaned out. Only then would the filter be allowed to do its work and everything would be back to normal.

Clipping the welding tool to his belt, James made his way off the roof. His headlamp barely illuminating the way forward as the storm cloud was so think millions of individual grains of glass was likely striking him every minute and the brutal wind gusts fought vainly to dislodge him. Eventually he planted his feet on the unpaved bare glass street. Instead of making his way back to the maintenance shed to return the hardsuit, James pushed onto the village's main street where all the recreational buildings were situated including the lone tavern.

Cycling through the airlock to remove any remaining particles from the air, James passed through the inner doors. Officially, the prefabricated structure was called Recreational Amenity MK: III, Model: 60432-34/Social Gathering Center, to the 500 people who called the area home it was simply: The Shattered Stool. The interior, like many other structures, was colored in a range of drab greys to drab whites with a blocky architectural design and rounded angles. The actual bar counter was off to the left of the door and a number of tables and chairs enough to comfortably seat 50 people took up the rest of the space.

James popped the seal on his helmet, allowing his ear length black hair to hang loose. He placed the helmet on a protruding metal shelf next to a dozen other hard helmets of similar but less complex design. Moving over to the counter, James opted to stay standing due to his suit's weight and flagged down the bartender who rapidly made his way to James.

"What'll you have, Oz?" the bartender, a portly man with short brown hair and a bushy mustache not found anywhere else in the galaxy, inquired smiling.

"Oh, same 'ol same 'ol, you know what I want, Barns," James said with an even wider grin.

"Eh, well," Barns began, "I'm hoping one day you'll see the light of truth about this swill." He poured a brackish brown fluid into a plastic shot glass and set it in front of James. "I for one truly believe the rumors that this stuff is made from the glass."

"All the better for the corporation," James stated as he downed the shot in one gulp, suppressing a grimace as it went down. "Finding more purposes for the stuff every day; Liang-Dortmund, renewing humanity's legacy," he half quoted, raising his glass to the corporate logo stenciled on the wall.

"One chip of glass at a time," Barns's grin turned into a laugh. "So, did you clock in some good overtime?" he asked once he'd calmed down enough.

"Nah, Not enough for LDC to bother," James said shaking his head. "But those boys over in Barrack B15 owe me a brew each," both James and Barns shared a laugh at that and James slid the shot glass back across the counter. "Put it on my tab."

"Will do buddy," Barns beamed, "Oh, keep an eye on those Riggers. They're squirrelly about debts."

"I'm aware, Barns," James playfully droned, "I've been here just as long as you."

"Ah, but you Maints don't have as much contact with them as I do. I'm do run the 'social gathering center' after all," Barns retorted, the joviality of the conversation unmissable at this point.

"Bah," James happily stormed off and approached a table occupied by a bunch of fellow residents playing cards. They were dressed in apparel similar to James's hardsuit in coloration, but not of the same complexity. A single piece cargo suit was their main apparel underneath ceramic alloy chest pieces, knee and elbow pads, shin and forearm guards, and a myriad of belts, loops, pouches, and buckles for storing gear.

"I'd sit down and deal myself in, but I fear I may crack the glass under our feet more than we're already paid to," James quipped.

"Woe is me," a dark skinned player sarcastically spoke up, "Here I thought my bad luck would be getting worse."

"Oh, I think you have enough already," James stated, peaking at another player's cards who quickly hid them from view. "So, how's the life of a Lazop this fine stormy day, Abe?"

"Average," Abe replied wincing as the person across from him played a card that put all his strategies in jeopardy, "Drilling out grid squares and whatever interesting things LDC puts on our plate."

"As usual. Alright, see you later, Abe," James said with a wave.

On concluding the check up conversation, James weighed his options. He could go back to the shed and return the hardsuit like he was technically supposed to, but he'd be stuck there for the duration of the storm. Going straight to the barracks was an option, but no one would be there due to the storm and most everyone being on shift digging away the glasslands as was their job. Ultimately, he stood himself up in front of one of the bar's windows, a thick plexiglass design able to withstand just about anything, and stared out into the storm.

James could see illumination from almost a dozen different structures reflect strangely off the flying glass and as was common when someone was stuck in one spot, they started thinking. Invariably, James's train of thought hovered over his job which, in a way, he shared with over half a million other colonists of Mesa. Deglassing a glassed planet, as was Liang-Dortmund Corporation's unwavering promise, was a tedious, unimaginably slow, and multi layered process that had spawned a unique frontier culture all its own. 40 years after Mesa was glassed, 30 some years after the War ended, and 20 years since LDC had begun its operation only about 22% of Mesa's glassed surface, which was about half the total landmass, was officially deglassed. This 1.1% deglassed per standard year rate was considered rapid by LDC in comparison to the corporation's other operations across dozens of glassed planets and, by James's own estimation, Mesa had another 60 years before it was entirely glass free.

Of course the planet would never truly be glass free. Laws and restrictions passed by the United Earth Government had declared significant areas of previous human habitation on glassed worlds war memorials, and Mesa had 14 such significant areas.

James paused his intense ruminations to peer as far down the main street as he could. He could just barely make out the massive holo emitter in the center of town that broadcast schedules, news, and displayed the name of this place, his home. Verboten Station, named after an old sign that had been dug up during the town's early construction, was directly in the middle of one of these memorial areas and surrounded by the remnants of the old civilization. Twisted and warped husks of once gleaming skyscrapers, chunks of concrete and asphalt, bits of vehicles and dwellings, and, of course, the occasional discovery of human bones all surrounded Verboten Station. At some point, possibly in a century or so, this area of ten square kilometers would be one of 14 pyramids of black glass surrounded by a lush and refurbished Mesa memorializing the past.

James shook away that morbid line of thinking and summarized the deglassing method to himself. Laser operators, or Lazops, went in first with gargantuan heavy augers equipped with solid state lasers that sliced and diced the glasslands into grid squares and unearthed valuable mineral deposits. Then the Riggers came in with equally gigantic mobile mining rigs, designed in line with Ancient Earth mining dredges, that crawled along scraping the glass away as it went one square at a time, keeping what was useful and discarding what wasn't. Meanwhile, in the middle of everything was the recreational workers, Rekkers, like Barns, and the maintenance technicians, Maints, like James, that kept everything running smoothly.

Suddenly feeling dwarfed in the grand scheme of things, as was usual when he thought about this stuff, James moved back to the bar for another drink.

/

The storm didn't die down for another 12 hours, but when it finally did the previously roaring glasslands became deathly silent.

Wilhelm Schmidt deactivated his quad, a Mongoose ATV colored in LDC orange, and allowed the silence to claim one last vestige of noise. All around him was the ruins of buildings and the jagged spires of glass that defined Mesa today, but hadn't existed before. He still remembered what it was like back then. This was his birthplace and continued to be his home even after having to abandon it so long ago.

Schmidt climbed off the quad and retrieved his pickaxe and spade from the back along with a small black duffle bag. The bag was slung over his shoulder while the tools were clipped to his belt, only then did he leave the quad. After traversing almost 200 feet of uneven glass, Schmidt stopped in what may have been a four way intersection before the War. Ruins towered over him and between them ran two broad avenues leaving a wide clearing in the middle.

Schmidt knew this place, he treasured it, it held special meaning to him. Kneeling down, he used the pick and spade to chip out a one by one foot hole in the glass. The effort was a grand workout for his well conditioned 60 year old frame and he relished in it. True to its design, the green visor of his hard helmet didn't fog from his breath.

After that came the real hard part, the duffel bag. Schmidt unzipped it and peered down into its contents, almost wishing he still had tears to shed. The bag was full of blackened human bones. A femur, bits of a hand, a foot, a jaw, a couple of ribs, some chunks of skull, and a lot of teeth all occupied the same space.

Schmidt was a Rigger. He worked aboard the mobile mining rigs that crawled across Mesa scraping the glass away inch by inch. Sometimes they scraped up more than glass, and Schmidt felt it was his duty as a native Mesan to put his deceased fellows to rest as best as he could.

Unfortunately, forces both unknown and incomprehensible to Schmidt and every other living being chose that moment to interrupt him. For what reason, either in necessity or twisted humor, was unknown.

Schmidt first detected the change due to slight vibrations in the ground. Initially fearing an earthquake, he zipped up the duffel and stared up at the ruins in case one decided to fall. Instead he was shocked to see the empty air between two of the old buildings not 15 meters in front of him warp and pulsate until a structure literally resolved into existence.

Schmidt stared dumbfounded at the apparition, half believing himself to be hallucinating. The structure was simply a pair of pillars holding up an ornate arch, but the design was vaguely familiar. Schmidt remembered his historian mother showing him photos of the remains of a dead Earth civilization and calling the architecture Greco-Roman. That's what appeared to be right in front of him and what was most alarming was that the archway seemed open to an abyss blacker than any chunk of glass he'd ever seen.

Just as he was about to return to his task and hightail it back to town to report the bewildering occurrence, something else happened that put him back in a stupor. A man, an honest to God man, stepped out of the arch. There had been no evidence of his approach, Schmidt hadn't even seen him beforehand. He just appeared and was know staring bewildered at the world around him.

Equally bewildering to Schmidt was the man's general appearance. He wore a leather tunic underneath heavy metal armor colored deep black and wore a helmet with decorative wing like protrusions. The helmet perfectly framed his exposed and weathered face and beady eyes that darted around before latching on to Schmidt

Schmidt didn't have time to comprehend these oddities before a second figure "stepped" through the arch, more obviously armed. In a flash, the second figure brought up his strange weapon, cocked his left arm back, and released.

A striking blur shot towards Schmidt and impacted on his chest. Instinctively, he reached his hand to the point of impact and inadvertently caught the projectile as it bounced off his ceramic alloy plate. The projectile revealed itself to be a long, thin, wooden shaft with feathery protrusions at one end and a sharp metal point at the other. The tip of the point had been blunted by the hit.

Convinced of these figures' hostility and without much hesitation or second thought for his tools or the duffel, in the end the living were more important than the dead, Schmidt ran. One look back proved the strangers weren't pursuing him but he didn't slow all the way to the Mongoose. Hoping on the ATV and keying the ignition, Schmidt gunned it back into the glasslands towards town with the weird projectile still clutched in his hand.

/

The strangers watched the native flee after miraculously surviving an arrow shot. With little more than a couple of hand gestures the stranger who fired the shot disappeared back into the arch while the first stranger moved to the spot the native had vacated.

The stranger's long strides crossed the distance in seconds. He briefly examined the discarded pick and spade, simply noting the tool's familiarity before moving on. The duffel bag was of higher interest to the stranger who, after failing to figure out how to open the bag, resorted to hacking it open with a knife.

Only with considerable effort was he able to open a hole large enough to look inside and when he did he visible flinched and stood back up. To the stranger the bag of bones was a kind of confirmation of his mission. The people of this strange land obviously were barbarians to keep such things and needed to be brought under enlightened rule.

Looking up at the ruined towers surrounding him, the stranger marveled at their unnatural structure and wondered what kind of power could've built them. In the end though that power was obviously gone from the land, giving the stranger confidence as a harbinger of a new power.

Unceremoniously, the stranger kicked the duffel bag into the hole Schmidt had dug up earlier. To him this act symbolized the burying of this land's old ways, making room for the new. He turned back to the arch and waited until dozens of armored red caped figures poured through.

/

 _"Mayday! Mayday! Verboten Station, please come in!"_

Verboten Station's on duty communications technician palmed his cup of synthetic caffeine and water LDC called a coffee ration and keyed his mic. "Please identify?" he calmly questioned.

 _"Wilhelm Schmidt, Senior Manager, rig 176-5-N."_

The technician relaxed a bit on hearing the name. Everyone knew Schmidt and his legendary integrity. "What's going, sir?"

 _"I've been attacked! By...pirates!"_

The technician slightly tensed. Piracy was an all too real problem in the less than lawful outer colonies. "What can you tell me, sir? Force numbers, weapons, vehicles, anything?"

 _"I can't say anything on numbers or vehicles, but...they shot me with something. It didn't penetrate my gear, but I've got no idea what it is."_

That was a slight relief. "Sir, are they human?" the technician asked, dreading the possible answers.

 _"I think so."_

That was an even greater relief. "I'll inform security and the mayor. Get yourself home, sir."

/

James nervously tugged at his collar. His hardsuit having been replaced by regular miner gear. Not to long ago he'd been repairing what little damage had been caused by the glass storm as a maintenance technician. However, he now stood at Verboten Station's main entrance with a group of around a 30, including the station's mayor and security chief, as a volunteer member of the Mesan Colonial Guard.

In front of them, beyond the gate, was an army of unknowns numbering 200 strong. Everyone of them garbled in black colored armor. They were unnervingly silhouetted against the surrounding black and grey landscape giving a handful of miners pause.

The mayor, a tall and thin man who'd been in office for many years, walked a short ways beyond the town gate with a megaphone in hand. "Attention unknowns!" he said, the megaphone enhancing his voice to a shout. "I do believe there has been some misunderstanding. As a representative of the Liang-Dortmund Corporation I am fully equipped to handle this dispute through negotiations!"

"Hey," a voice hissed from James's right, "We should've closed the gate already. There is another glass storm coming, you know."

"I know Abe," James replied, "Unfortunately, if we close the gate on these people without talking to them and that news gets out. PR nightmare for LDC."

"Shit."

"Yeah, but at least this storm won't last long. It's only an offshoot of the main complex and the last report puts it an hour out. More than likely, it won't last as long as that."

Abe opened his mouth to reply but at that moment he was cut off by a piercing scream. The mayor fell on his back clutching a feathered shaft of some sort lodged in his abdomen. One look further out confirmed that the unknowns were crossing the distance at an alarming rate.

"Close the gate! Close the gate!" the security chief yelled as he and another miner rushed forward and pulled the mayor back. "Hold the line!" he ordered no one in particular before disappearing.

Ultimately, the gate was too slow, and by the time it did close roughly two dozen unknowns had slipped through and were now wreaking havoc in Verboten Station's outer courtyard. The volunteer colonial guard, expecting their mayor to successfully negotiate with the unknowns, was caught off guard and disorganized by the sudden melee charge.

Wielding sharpened metal weapons many of the miners native to the Outer Colonies were completely unfamiliar with, the unknowns went to work. One miner was stabbed in his rather unarmored gut and went down screaming. Another brought his arm up to deflect a blow only to have it shorn completely off and an armored boot to the chest sent him flying backward. One more managed to punch an unknown in the face only to vanish under a flurry of stabbing metal and black figures.

James and Abe were some of the first to recover from the initial shock. Pulling out the M6 sidearms they'd taken from the armory, the pair opened fire on the unknowns. Their example was soon followed by the rest of the guard and pretty soon bullets were flying and unknown bodies were dropping. The courtyard was soon cleared of unknown hostiles at the cost of 16 miners injured or dead. The survivors didn't have much time to contemplate their position before a series of loud WHUMPs sounded from beyond the wall.

 _"All guardsmen to the top of the wall! The enemy has energy weapons! Hurry!"_ The voice of the security chief yelled through the communicator in James's hard helmet and from the looks of those around him they'd heard the message too.

James felt a flare of anger at the chief. He was the commander of the local guard and he'd disappeared before the initial actions and now he was yelling obscure orders over open comms. He wasn't proving himself very well. Worse yet, with the incoming glass storm...

James's opinions were evidently shared by more by than a few of his colleagues. Begrudgingly, they climbed the service ladders, joined with another group of colonial guard, and surveyed the scene beyond the wall.

The remainder of the unknown force was milling around the base of the wall looking confused and fairly disorganized. As soon as the guardsmen appeared on top of the wall however, they became instant targets. Wooden shafts with sharp metal ends both large and small were soon flying up at them. Most missed, a few ricocheted off hard helmets and ceramic chess pieces, however a few did find soft targets, an arm, a leg, one miner caught one in the throat and fell backwards off the wall.

The guardsmen, using what little cover was available, didn't hold back themselves. Every time one of their pistols barked a winged helmet flew or black armor hit the glass. However, as the confrontation dragged on the miners quickly became jittery. They knew they couldn't stay very long.

Soon enough their worries were confirmed when one miner called out, "Storm wall!" The ominous black cloud had just crested the horizon and was roaring in the direction of Verboten Station. The unknown forces also chose that moment to unveil something.

Blue orbs of energy shot up from the enemy's rear ranks and flew at the wall. The miners atop the wall remembered the security chief's callout of energy weapons and ducked as low as they could. Most of the energy blasts splashed across the wall with little effect although a few unlucky miners were vaporized by high aimed shots.

By that point, many of the remaining defenders were falling back few by few. James, holding his ground for a second longer, could see ripples of shock and expressions of confusion in the enemy. Apparently they'd expected these weapons of theirs to be able to take down the station walls. James filed this observation away as he vacated the wall himself.

Down below, the enemy commander observed the frantic motions of the defenders up above. He connected them to the rapidly approaching dark cloud and began shouting orders for specific defensive formations.

 _"Evacuate the wall! All able bodied fighters to the maintenance storage shed. There's a plan in the works,"_ the security chief again called over the comms. By the amount of people running in random directions it was obvious to James no one was paying him any attention.

He keyed his own communicator, "Chief, this is James Oz and I need you to explain this plan to me."

 _"That's unneces-"_

"It's very necessary, chief," James cut him off. "Your orders have gotten people killed and no one is listening anymore. Tell me the plan."

There was a pause followed by a very audible sigh. _"The enemy seems to know the danger of the glass storm and are gathering under deployable shields of some kind. I want to take a force in hardsuits beyond the wall hit them as the storm passes. Copy?"_

"I copy," James said. It wasn't a bad plan. As the old saying went; a strong defense is a swift offense.

He switched to the open frequency, "This is James Oz. You all know who I am and I'm personally vouching for the chief's plan. It's better than waiting until the storm ends to deal with these assholes. All volunteers to maintenance storage!" James switched off the communicator and resumed his sprint through the streets. By the time he made it to the shed the wind had picked up substantially and glass particles were already flying.

He blew through the airlock and entered the shed proper which was only a shed in name as the actual building was comparable to a medium sized warehouse. Inside were some 60 individuals all with various armaments ranging from handguns to steel pipes. This display was one of many reasons James was proud to be a colonial, knowing everyone around him was ready to give their all in defense of their home regardless of the lack of trust in their leadership.

On James's appearance, the security chief made his presence known and laid out the plan. After that he unlocked the racks bearing dozens of hardsuits and an auxiliary locker holding small arms, mainly SMGs. The miners had only just started putting on their hardsuits when the structure shook ever so slightly, indicating the storm wall had hit.

James, once again clad in a hardsuit, pulled an SMG out of the locker. He recognized it as an M20, perfectly suited for the close confines of Verboten Station's interior but anything beyond the wall was questionable. His M6 would most likely be his best friend in any ranged engagement.

"Okay," the security chief spoke up when everyone had settled down, "we'll bunker down here until the storm is almost passed. That shouldn't take too long."

The 60 miners turned impromptu soldiers spread throughout the maintenance shed intent on relaxing a little before running into battle. As a result a bunch of side conversations developed.

"Who the Hell are we fighting?"

"Not a clue, man. They're easy to kill though. So it'll be easy to show them why you don't fuck with the frontier!"

"Hell yeah to that, brother."

"Who called it in?"

"Schmidt, over in the corner there. He heads out into the ruins on a personal errand and comes back screaming over the radio about pirates."

"Good for him. We'd have been caught with our pants down without his warning."

Eventually, the roaring of the storm outside began to lessen and apprehension began to grip some of the miners.

"Alright," the security chief called, "let's go."

The miners secured their helmets, sealed their suits, and filed out of the maintenance shed. Outside the light provided by Mesa's star was nearly nonexistent and the air was choked with particulate, forcing the miners to use their helmets infrared settings. Keeping silent and mostly to themselves, the volunteer force made their way back to the wall and climbed up, the second time for some. At the top the miners began affixing cord wherever they could and tossed it all over the other side. As the security chief had explained, using the main gate was akin to lighting a beacon and if the enemy's shield generators were portable things would get complicated quickly.

Before he took one of the cords down, James switched off his infrared and examined the field with his own eyes. Three domes of blue light blazed out through the glass cloud. James could see these domes pulse and waver under the constant barrage of glass. The fact that these shields were holding up so well was a testament to their strength. James switched his infrared back on and the domes were replaced with three clusters of warm mass surrounded by a sea of neutral temperatures. Then he climbed down with his comrades.

The general consensus was if the miners couldn't see them without enhanced vision then they couldn't see the miners. As the 60 strong force all but sprinted to their assigned positions the security chief who'd remained on top of the wall began barking orders. He divided the force into three groups of 20 each tasked with surrounding one dome each to keep the enemy divided when it came time to re engage.

 _"All fighters maintain a low profile until I give the order," the security chief ordered. "When I do, storm their shields and try to force a surrender. LDC may want prisoners."_

 _"The Hell?"_

 _"How are we supposed to do that?"_

 _Can we even get through their shields?"_

 _"Hold the questions,"_ the security chief interjected in an attempt to regain control, _"If they're anything like the military's portable shields people can go through but weapons fire can't."_

 _"How can you know?"_

 _"This is so fucked!"_

"Everyone stay put and shut up!" James had lost what little patience he had left for the security chief as he leapt out from behind an outcrop of glass.

 _"Mr. Oz, what the Hell?"_ The chief called.

In as much of a crouch as his hardsuit allowed, James stalked up to the edge of one of the domes. He could see the forms of the enemy soldiers with the infrared just lounging about hardly two meters away waiting for the storm to end. James reached out and his hand passed right through totally unnoticed by those beyond. It didn't feel like he'd stuck his hand through a wall of electricity like the military's shields supposedly felt like, but like an organic film or membrane.

"We can go through the shield," James reported through his communicator. The glass storm was on its last legs and if the goal was to catch these guys unaware then the miners would have to make their move sooner rather than later.

 _"Good work, Mr. Oz. Please return to your position and wait for my order-"_

"All teams," James cut the chief off, "move in now, breach the shields, fire shots in the air, kill anyone who resists, and pacify the rest. Go! Go! Go!"

 _"What?"_ the chief cried.

At once all 60 armed frontier miners surged forward. Some screamed war crimes over the comms while a few flipped on their headlamps for added psychological effect, an action that quickly spread out amongst the miners. James watched the heat blips within the shield stir and move about with a little more purpose having evidently noticed the commotion made by the miners. He waited until the rest were just about to pass through before moving forward.

His first action was to bury his SMG's stock into one of the enemy soldier's face. As that man fell to the glass like a brick James sprayed the air above him with bullets. His intention, along with the others who followed his lead, was to startle the enemy and keep them off balance. The actual result went a little farther.

Enemy soldiers recoiled in pure terror at the sound of the gunfire with most even dropping their weapons and going to their knees. Those that remained standing instantly became priority targets for the charged up miners. One raised his weapon, which James had only just recognized as an ancient style sword, and was cut down, another defiantly pointed one of the long metal tipped shafts at a miner who responded with his M6 by blowing the soldier away with .50 caliber magnum. The last red caped soldier to offer up any resistance thought he could beat his attackers to the draw, notched an arrow of all things, aimed, and was scythed apart for his trouble with concentrated SMG fire.

Beginning to end, eight enemy soldiers out of around thirty were dead. The rest were cowering at the apparent sight of the one eyed fire breathing monsters storming their shield dome leaving only two still standing. One was obviously an officer with very ornate black armor and a cape while the other stood in the middle of the dome and was a much shorter person almost completely hidden under a grey cloak and thick robes with only slender wrists and hands holding a staff of some sort visible. Motes of blue light emitted from staff flowed into the shield indicating that this piece of wood, for lack of a better description on the miners part, was the shield generator and lending its wielder a lot more importance.

"All teams check in," James ordered.

 _"We got ours, James,"_ Abe's voice replied, _"For all their bark and bite earlier they gave up pretty quickly now. We only had to kill a handful. I wonder if we put the fear of God in them with our headlamps."_

 _"It's the same with the third dome,"_ a more serious miner interjected, _"Ten of the enemy dead the rest have surrendered. We've also captured what looks like a higher ranking officer."_

"Copy, please stand by," James said.

 _"Uh, this guy is looking a little crazy,"_ a miner in James's team announced.

The one enemy soldier standing had begun acting irate. He shouted unintelligibly at the other soldiers and angrily gesturing at the miners. Then he made the mistake of stalking straight towards James while fiddling with something on his belt. James hoped the soldier would back off up until the soldier passed within five feet in front of him. James drew his sidearm with drilled efficiency and shot the soldier in the kneecap, aiming to cripple instead of kill.

The soldier who was possibly dressed as a higher ranked officer fell to the glass on his good knee and screamed long and hard. Another miner crossed James's vision and kneeled next to the injured enemy. He gripped the soldier's shoulder with his left hand while illuminating the man's pained eyes.

 _"You're the guy who tried to kill me when you first got here,"_ the miner said for all to hear. His right hand developed into a fist, _"Try to do it better next time, Giftzwerg."_ His fist crashed into the soldier's lower jaw knocking off the primitive helmet and revealing a dull featured man with long dark hair tied up in a bun. Now the debate of whether or not taking the enemy soldiers prisoner was worth it began. James wasn't the only one wrestling with this as the other miners either lowered or raised their weapons in deliberation.

James walked passed the officer who'd just been knocked cold and through the crowd of enemy soldiers. Most of them scurried out of his way though he give one stubborn acting soldier a kick to get his message across. He stopped in front of the only other standing figure. The person in robes. James reached forward and pulled back the smaller person's hood revealing the angular features and blue eyes of a young woman with almost blindly blue hair.

Her tired eyes and exhausted visage convinced James that enough had died and the rest should be taken prisoner and given a chance at justice. He and the rest had signed up with Liang-Dortmund to build themselves a home not to slaughter people, pirates though they may be. Besides, enough of them had died in retribution for the miners they'd killed.

James patched a call to the security chief whose angry rants had gone ignored for the duration of the skirmish. "Chief, the enemy have been pacified. We've got prisoners and need the auxiliary barracks ready to take them in."

 _"James Ozymandias! You disobeyed a direct order. I-"_

"I don't need to explain myself to you," James snapped. "Have you called this into headquarters?"

 _"Yes,"_ the chief answered still reeling from James's insubordination. _"Mesa Station has already deployed security forces."_

James winced at the notion of Verboten Station swarming with PMCs. "You can be certain when they arrive I'm submitting a report detailing how your decisions got people needlessly killed."

 _"And you can be sure my report will highlight your disobeying a direct order and threats against a superior officer."_

"I'm not a true soldier anymore," James vehemently stated. "As far as I'm concerned, I have a right to question your judgement. Now open the gate, sir," the sarcasm in "sir" was thick as cream as James cut off the call.

Gently, James prodded the woman with the shield staff forward. "All teams get the prisoners moving to town. We're putting them in the auxiliary barracks until further notice." James was meet with an wave of affirmatives as the other miners began forcing the prisoners to get up and walk.

Briefly, James considered making the woman in front of him drop the shield, but shook that idea away. The glass storm outside had mostly died out, however any further exposure to Mesa's air other than what these soldiers already had was a death sentence. Not that James or any of the other miners particularly cared. These strange humans had attacked them, their home, and killed their neighbors just like a certain enemy humanity had faced not too long ago, with no warning and no apparent intent for mercy.

As the prisoners were herded through Verboten Station, forcibly disarmed along the way, and roughly crammed into the two auxiliary barracks structures, James wondered why these people had staged this attack with such primitive equipment and believed they could've won. He couldn't think of any sensible reasons.

 **A/N: Follow, favorite, and review please.**


	2. Chapter 2: This Time it's War

Chapter 2: This Time It's War

October 19, 2580. Liang-Dortmund corporate headquarters, Luna.

The ornate oak door to the office of Deon Jennings swung open and a man in a crisp black uniform walked through the threshold. Jennings was a chief executive of LDC and as such his desk saw just about everything the corporation was involved in and the inquiries that came with them.

"Mr. Jennings, a pleasure," the black uniformed man beamed and offered his hand.

"Thank you very much, Mr...?"

"Ah, Agent Marshall will suffice."

"Yes of course," Jennings affirmed and shook the offered hand. "Please take a seat."

Marshall did just that. "Now, Mr. Jennings. I'm sure you're aware of the state of the known galaxy?"

"Yes, indeed," Jennings answered quickly, silently scrambling to understand the reasoning behind the question. "The Sangheili's coalition government is running smoothly, the more violent races are under quarantine, trade is at an all time high, and true stability is estimated to be right around the corner."

"Done your homework," Marshall applauded. "I'm here specifically because stability is just around the corner and the Office of Naval Intelligence fully intends to see that realized. Humanity's best interest is our core tenet, even if we come off as overbearing sometimes."

"Okay," Jennings had his chin cupped in his hand, wondering where this was going.

"The outer colonies are of course rife with piracy and insurgency, but there are a few areas that are fairly secure," Marshall's eyes narrowed slightly and his tone became more suspecting. "The glassed planet, Mesa, is in one such sector and host to an LDC deglassing operating."

"That's true." Jennings said. "Mesa is a crown jewel of ours next to Meridian which is almost completely deglassed."

"Yes, yes," Marshall waved. "However, that doesn't explain why LDC recently stationed two regiment sized security forces in addition to the one regiment sized force already on a world under no obvious threat," the agent ceased beating around the bush.

"Under the Corporate Self Defense Act, on site executives are authorized to request armed assistance-"

"I know, Marshall interrupted, "But that begs the question, what threat warrants two extra regiments much less anything over a company? The Liang-Dortmund Corporation has the best equipped and third largest security branch in the private sector and this sudden buildup has the Office very curious."

"Whatever the issue is, I assure you it's under control," Jennings said with a blank face.

"Surely, however the Office would still appreciate an explanation of the situation." Marshall subtly demanded.

"When the information becomes available it will be forwarded to ONI," Jennings replied, still straight faced but internally he was scrambling. Jennings knew about the recent postings on Mesa, but had no knowledge of the exact size of the force and he'd be damned if he showed weakness and invited the crows at ONI to dinner.

Marshall gave the chief executive an almost imploring look. "Look, I'm offering you an olive branch that might lead to ONI providing assistance. Don't force us down the hard way."

"I'm sorry Agent Marshall," Jennings said, "The situation is firmly under our control."

The ONI agent gave Jennings a telling glare, "You know we'll find out eventually."

/

September 25, 2580

Over a span of 2,000 years humanity's achievements had become nearly uncountable. One of which was providing flight to the boxy designed pelican dropships. Scores of these venerable craft, painted in LDC orange and white, where making flights back and forth from Verboten Station ferrying supplies and soldiers. These soldiers were members of Liang-Dortmund's renowned private army, Liang-Dortmund Corporation, Security, or LDC-SEC. It was a mercenary organization whose prideful attitude had earned them the moniker Lick-Socks amongst the majority of LDC employees. The nickname itself was a disguise for many opinions against the PMCs, revealed if one replaced the first S with a C.

James Oz, as was his job, had been transporting crates of rifle ammunition to a supply dump in a forklift when his name was blared over the PA and directed to the outer courtyard. He hesitantly made his way there with the terrors of yesterday still fresh in his mind.

The site of the initial skirmish had been cleaned up, however splotches of dried gore still stained the glass in places. James wasn't the only one called to the courtyard. When he arrived a crowd of fully suited workers had already gathered mainly comprised of those who'd been involved in the battle as well as a multitude of highly ranked people. Crew chiefs, operation managers, and even the Chief of Security were present. He recognized a few faces specifically his career long friend Abe and Wilhelm Schmidt the man many were already referring to as a Hero of Verboten along with James.

Aside from the miners, there was a handful of LDC-SEC personnel in a fully enclosed military style uniform colored in the company colors for identification instead of camouflage. Once James had fallen in with his co workers, one of the security soldiers stepped forward.

"I am General Hazama!" the officer boomed, "As of this moment I am assuming control of this theatre of operations and will lead the counterattack against these unknown aggressors." He swept his gaze across the gathered crowd, "If you are unaware, they did not arrive by conventional means. According to the report filed by Mr. Schmidt, the enemy infiltrated Mesa through an archway or gate best interpreted as a teleporter of some sort." Hazmat waited a moment for the information to soak in, "There is no need from worry. LDC-SEC has sent two companies worth of its best and we will charge through this gate and run these bastards down." The general's voice was silky smooth, inviting, yet commanding. He sounded like a man who wouldn't hesitate to make friends with everyone in sight but his demeanor demanded respect and obedience.

Another orange fatigues clad officer stepped next Hazama. "Most of you gathered here have first hand combat experience with the enemy," he said with a voice devoid of Hazama's booming authority. "As such, you will be embedded in the first wave through the gate." A ripple of alarmed faces spread across the crowd of miners that didn't go unnoticed. "Most of you won't be frontline fighters. Instead you'll be working as combat engineers installing preliminary defenses for subsequent counterattacks. That is all."

Hazama retook the miners' attention, "You are dismissed until further notice. Be ready. The attack begins when all assets are established." He glanced down at a data pad attached to his wrist and looked back up straight at James. "Mr. Ozymandias please stay awhile."

The other miners dispersed to put their gear in order leaving James to confront the general. He stepped forward and resisted the urge to salute, old habits he'd long suppressed fighting to resurface.

The general looked him up and down while repeatedly glancing at his wrist. "I've read every report and watched all the footage I could get a hold of and I have to say I've found the actions of Verboten Station's resident security chief questionable."

James exhaled ever so slightly in relief. He wasn't the one in trouble.

"His encouragement for negotiating with a force that had already assaulted a man was idiotic," Hazama berated. "Garrisoning the top of the wall when the enemy couldn't get in was moronic. And he remained behind at all times giving vague instructions that amounted simply to 'Charge'," the general became livid the longer he spoke. "His decisions caused unnecessary casualties and he with be dealt with accordingly."

James, in all honesty, couldn't agree more though he would've liked to have added his own opinions.

The second officer, who'd remained quiet during General Hazama's verbal attack, spoke up. "I don't believe he is a total loss, general. He did, in the end, formulate the strategy that routed the enemy." He took a step forward and focused on James, "This brings us back to you."

James froze momentarily under the officer's suddenly accusing eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"You disobeyed a direct order," the officer admonished, "Your record indicates you have a habit of insubordination." James' opinion of the man was diminishing rapidly. "However, you should be commended for taking a deadly situation with little intel and few resources and emerging unscathed."

"I had a good group of guys," James replied warily.

"Indeed," the officer's comment hardly sounded half sincere. "However, it's my job to make sure orders are obeyed in their entirety." He held out his hand to James, "Captain Mason Thornhill, LDC-SEC chief of security."

"James Oz," he said and accepted the offered hand. Neither broke eye contact, each measuring the other.

"Gentlemen, if you're quite concluded we've got other issues to attend to," Hazama stepped in. "Namely, Mr. Ozymandias, I've taken the liberty of assigning you and two others to Combat Team A, First Platoon, Indi Company. You'll find them at Landing Pad 4. Now, the captain and I have a building full of prisoners to look over." The general's appraising eye swept back over James, "I have to say though, I am impressed you captured as many as you did. Plenty of commanders I've known wouldn't have bothered."

"I've known my fair share of those too, sir," James admitted with a slight bit of shame, "If I may ask. Where did you serve, general?"

Hazama looked bemused by the question as if it was one of his favorites. "I joined up as soon as I could but was too late for the War. Served in the Corps for 24 years before hoping on with LDC. You?"

To James' momentary surprise, Hazama's story mirrored his own by a considerable degree. The outcomes however were wildly different. "77th Marines," he said as an answer to the general's question.

"A veteran through and through," Hazama said appreciatively, "The 77th doesn't tolerate rooks I hear. I'm happy to have you present, Mr. Ozymandias."

"This is my home now, sir" James said, "And you'll find more than everyone here is willing to protect it."

"Always glad to hear that," the General replied, "You're dismissed. Report to your new squad at the LZ." James saluted and turned on his heel having learned more than enough reasons to respect General Hazama.

Once James had vanished from view, Captain Thornhill moved up beside the general. "As much of a natural leader he seems to be, I'm still skeptical he won't prove a liability," he explained.

"What about his record exactly has you so worked up, captain?" Hazama asked.

"Specifically, the circumstances around his leaving the military," Thornhill answered.

"Send me the file."

"Will do."

At the conversation's conclusion both LDC-SEC officers strode off in a different direction than James. Along the way to the auxiliary barracks where the enemy prisoners were kept a multitude of people passed them by. LDC-SEC soldiers stepped aside and saluted while common workers and miners simply passed them by without a second glance.

"How many times have I expressed my distaste for planet's like this?" Captain Thornhill spoke up.

"Several times in the last week recently," Hazama answered, "And again I'll tell you how ridiculous the opinion is because the corporation specializes in planets like this."

Thornehill huffed, "These planets are war memorials. They should be left alone. It's akin to ploughing up a graveyard to build a house."

Inwardly Hazama was rolling his eyes at his good captain's shortsightedness. This specific conversation had been cropping up repeatedly over the four years both friends had been LDC-SEC. "Truly, what would you have us do?" the general pointed out, trying a different approach, "Abandon the glassed colonies and leave them to pirates and scavengers? Have the military waste valuable naval assets on their defense and leave the border open? But why not put them to use? Put some skilled workers to work and when the work is done recolonize and everybody wins."

"Not everybody," Captain Thornhill said with an almost uncharacteristic amount of solemnity.

"I hear you, "Hazama stated, "Unfortunately there's truly nothing we can do for the dead and the living take precedence."

"Mmm hmm," the captain groaned, his argument thoroughly picked apart.

"As usual I must ask why you joined LDC if you disdain their practices?" Hazama asked.

"Comrades don't leave comrades behind," Captain Thornhill answered.

"We were only comrades for 15 years," Hazama lightheartedly joked, "And I was the one who wanted to leave. So who would've left who behind?"

"I think in a way we both would've left each other behind, "the captain stated, "Ultimately though, you were the one who wouldn't listen."

Hazama smiled. Lasting friendships had their routines and this conversation was one such routine. "Semper Fi, brother."

The general and his trusted right hand captain crossed the remaining distance in silence. The pathway broadened out in front of the auxiliary barracks as the size of every street and path in Verboten Station was defined by the structures around them. As the two officers approached the airlock the outer door slid open and a trio of people stepped out. Two were LDC-SEC soldiers toting magnums and flanking both sides of the third: a handcuffed, blue haired, pale skinned girl in grey robes and appeared to have been forced into a breather mask and clear glass protective eye goggles. One of the prisoners then, definitely not LDC.

"Private, where are you escorting this person," Hazama inquired commandingly.

"General, sir," the leftmost soldier began with a salute, "We're taking single or small groups of prisoners to the station physician. Many of them are showing early symptoms of Razorlung." Soon after he finished, the girl was wracked by vicious coughing fit that provided the general all the proof he needed.

Razorlung was the unofficial team for the condition acquired through the inhaling of glass particles. The severity of the condition varied from planet to planet depending on the pre-war environment. Worlds that previously had significant bodies of water or high humidity tended to have violent rain and snowstorms that kept the glass on the ground and nullified the threat. Mesa had previously been a predominantly arid world making the condition all the more prevalent. It was treatable but could only be completely cured by swapping the affected organs with cloned replacements. If cloning was unavailable, the dominant opinion was that the luckiest were those who suffered full exposure and died comparatively quickly by suffocation. Anyone with limited exposure had it worse as the small number of particles tore through their lungs, making way for secondary infections, and multiple organ failures as the particles traveled through the body.

"As you were then, private," the general dismissed the soldier and moved to pass them.

Captain Thornhill's eyes lingered on the strange girl as the two groups moved by each other. Neither her status as a prisoner or fatal lung condition seemed to register in her accusing eyes. She glared indignantly at him as he passed and out of the bottom of his vision he saw her fingers weaving intricate pattern in the air.

Blue sparks materialized out of nowhere and shot from her fingertips. The captain seemingly felt the effects of gravity shift ninety degrees followed by a jarring impact with the airlock door. Shaking off the disorientation, Captain Thornhill found himself staring at the black-grey Mesan sky. Flipping himself over, he found both privates tossed ten meters in either directions and the prisoner standing uncuffed and glowing an eerie shade of blue. Scrambling to his knees, Thornehill witnessed the prisoner execute another intricate hand and arm gesture accompanied by by an unintelligible spoken phrase. A colorful disc of light, reminiscent of a slipspace portal, burst into existence a few meters away and the prisoner made a mad dash for it.

"General, stay down!" Thornhill yelled, primarily thinking about his superior's safety who remained crumpled up at the base of the airlock.

Tearing his sidearm from its holster, Thornhill took aim with his signature long-barreled M6C. "Halt! Stop!"

The escaping prisoner, having heard Thornhill, turned to look over her shoulder. Her determined eyes locked with Thornhill's equally determined ones for a second time, but she didn't stop. A shot rang out and a bullet tore through her thigh. Screaming in agony, the prisoner hit the glass hard, razor sharp shards digging into her shoulder and palms. With one last heave she launched herself forward with her one good leg and tumbled through the portal which dissipated immediately after.

Captain Thornehill released a pent up breath and lowered his pistol. He mentally justified his lousy shot as an attempt to recapture the prisoner alive. The two privates had recovered by now and were making their way back to the captain's location. Thornehill waved them towards the general and walked to where the portal had appeared.

There was a definite blood spatter along a thin strip of discolored glass as if it had been heat treated. Captain Thornhill wasn't in total disbelief. He knew the military was experimenting with portable teleportation, but that stuff required mountains of specialized equipment and emitters. This was out of thin air, seemingly summoned by arm gestures no less. Major Thornehill silently steeled himself to withstand more of the unbelievable once passed the gate.

General Hazama had already collected himself as the privates approached him. Reaching out, the general latched onto the closest soldier, "How many have been moved to the physician?" The general's voice had turned cold as ice.

"Sir," the soldier whimpered, "seventeen, sir." The man trying his hardest not to curl up and hide, expecting a full reprisal as he was.

"And there's two other robed characters in there right?" A sharp edge permeated the question.

"Yes, general."

General Hazama nodded and cupped his chin in consideration. "They don't move unless there's a full fireteam in attendance," he barked, "Now get in there, set up a clear space, and bring me an enemy officer. We're gonna have a chat."

/

James of course heard the gunshot. However he payed the noise little mind. He had somewhere to be and compared to the other night one shot was not a reason to get worked up. One of the prisoners simply must have gotten overly rambunctious and needed a warning.

For simplicity's sake Verboten Station's air pads had been built into the walls on the far side from the main entryway. This design provided an elevated position for inbound aircraft and negated the need to accommodate the pads inside the compound. A low grade ramp lead up each airpad, providing vehicle access and was James' last obstacle.

Cresting the ramp, James first spotted the Pelican dropship painted orange and white with the Liang-Dortmund Corporation logo stenciled on the side. Surrounding the dropship were nearly a dozen LDC-SEC soldiers in full orange-white battle dress uniform. James recognised the specific BDU as wartime Army issue with fully enclosed helmets that only left the eyes visible as per regulation. They were obsolete yet still in service when he'd served and only replaced within the last ten years.

James was snapped out of his observations by a hand clamping down on his shoulder. Turning, he came visor to visor with a pair of brown eyes in an army helmet.

"I see we've got another local," the soldier's tone was jubilant and welcoming. He put out his other hand, "PFC William Hudson, put 'er there and I'll show you 'round."

James took the offered hand and shook it, "James Oz, maintenance technician."

"Well, James Oz," the pair moved towards the Pelican, Hudson's arm firmly clasped to James' shoulder, "This here is the greatest group of privately operated fighters in the known galaxy." Hudson sounded so sure of himself it was almost arrogant.

As they paused under the Pelican's wing Hudson's second sales pitch was interrupted by a calmer more collected voice. "Hudson, one of these days you're gonna realize you never manage to pass the bars you keep setting."

Hudson groaned and turned to the new LDC-SEC soldier in an identical enclosed BDU. "A joke from the hick? Must be a lucky day."

"Yeah, yeah," the new soldier stopped in front of James, "He the last of the transfers?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Well," he put out his hand, "Corporal Dwayne Hicks and you must be James." James nodded and shook the offered hand silently wondering just how many more he'd have to shake before he was introduced to the rest of his new unit.

"I'll take the introductions from here," Hicks said to Hudson. "I know for a fact you've not completed the task sarge gave you."

"Well, yeah, I never get the fun stuff anyway," Hudson whined and walked off.

James found himself being lead towards the front of the Pelican where a pair of soldiers were crouched over an open crate full of comms equipment.

"Simplicity is key in my opinion," Hicks stated, "So we'll start here." He motioned towards the two soldiers, "This here is Privates Tim Crowe and Trevor Wierzbowski, our communications experts and radio operators. Need something called in, talk to them." Hicks paused mid-glance between James and the radiomen, "Word of warning; if you ever have to deal with Wierzbowski be very specific. He sometimes mistakes deliveries for artillery strikes."

The radioman in question, who'd managed to entirely ignore Hicks up until this point, responded to the joking insult with a middle finger pointed sky high and directed at Hicks. The offending soldier in question merely chuckled and walked away with James following behind.

Around the Pelican's nose and underneath its opposite wing was another pair of soldiers likewise rummaging through a stack of crates. This time the crates were loaded with disassembled firearms.

"These two are our resident heavy weapons specialists and tinkerers," Hicks explained. "Hey, Drake, Vasquez, wanna introduce yourself to the last of the new faces?"

One of the soldiers stood up while the other stayed put. The one standing stood over six feet and was imposingly broad shouldered and thick limbed even with the enclosed uniform.

"I'd hoped the first face was the last," the tall man spoke with a gruff baritone voice. "Private Mark Drake," he made no move to shake hands or introduce himself further instead he turned back to the crates.

"You're lucky you got that much," Hicks stated, "Neither of them are very welcoming of strangers."

Hicks began to lead James away, but the technician stopped when he was immediately next to the two heavies. If he was to integrate with this team without badly compromising its integrity, he'd need to establish a rapport of some sort. The heavy weapons specialists seemed a good place to start. At least he'd be comfortable with them manning the big guns at his back and firing barrages over his head if it came to that.

James took note of a pair of machine guns propped up against the crates. He recognized the model as M247 General Purpose Machine Guns that'd been outfitted with a couple major modifications. The weapon's stocks and grips had been removed entirely and replaced with a horizontal handle, the firing mechanism's position had been adjusted accordingly, and a second hand grip had been affixed to the left side of the weapon midway down the shroud. Additionally, James could see an IR rangefinder attached underneath the barrel.

An annoyed scowl formed on Drake's face and his mouth began to form an attempt to tell James off. He didn't really get the chance.

"We weren't really allowed to mess with our weapons much in the marines," James said, "But this is cool. You've taken a portable machine gun and made it into a sort of super squad automatic weapon."

Drake's scowl withered under the flattery and was replaced by a grin. "Heh, I do pride myself as a small time weaponsmith." He gave James a more serious look, "Marines eh, we'll probably get along just fine. At least I won't have to worry about your ass so much."

"Did you serve?" James asked.

"Tried," Drake answered sharply and with a brief flash of anger, "didn't work, came here".

That line of conversation was no longer going anywhere so James switched back to the machine gun. "Weapons like these usually have a name. Does yours?"

Drake grunted and reached for the gun's barrel. He spun the weapon around and revealed the words 'My Bitch' near the ejection port then he went back to rummaging through his crate.

Seeing Drake had shut him out, James switched his attention the other person present. "Vasquez, right? What's your gun's name?"

Vasquez gave the inquiring James a dangerous look out of the corner of her eye and answered plainly, "Adios." The double meaning was painfully obvious to James as he backed away.

Rejoining Hicks, James noticed the man had a slightly surprised look in his eyes. "Drake hardly ever opens up to new people like that," Hicks explained. "I guess the marines really was the way to go. I chose the army out of high school. Couldn't stomach the idea of spending a deployment on a navy ship. All that empty space just waiting to suck-"

"PRIVATE DRAKE!"

A commanding voice yelled from the back of the Pelican cut off Hicks' musings. The source materialized into another soldier who swung into view from the Pelican's ramp. He wore the the commonplace BDU with insignia that denoted him as a sergeant and his eyes were stern and uncompromising behind his visor.

Private Drake, Vasquez, and Hicks scrambled to attention and snapped off salutes. "Yes, sir?" Drake replied.

The sergeant strode forward until he was just opposite the stack of crates from Drake. "Private! I ordered these weapons loaded onto the bird twenty seconds ago! Care to explain why they're not?!"

"Yes, sergeant," Drake stepped around the crates in front of him and moved his weapon aside. He picked up one crate and flipped it over letting the lid fall off and nothing else. Drake set the empty crate down and picked up another one. Again the lid fell off and the crates were revealed to be empty.

"Sergeant, some some supply guy royally screwed up in packing these crates," Drake explained. "Vasquez and I were simply fixing this issue and now we're two boxes lighter." The private's self satisfied tone said everything about his opinion on the matter.

"Is that right?" the sergeant questioned with a slightly sly tone. "Well, good work private. But I still wanted those crates squared away a minute ago," his congratulations had morphed into a less than veiled threat. "Private Drake, from now on you're in charge of the squad's supplies. You'll have to count every bullet, bomb, and bandolier and keep track of every single one. And if even one goes missing, private, even one..." The sergeant held a finger menacingly in the air as he let his words sink in. "It's your ass, private. It's your ass."

Drake snapped off a quick salute and a yes sir, then began squaring the crates away on the Pelican along with Vasquez who'd kept quiet during the whole thing.

"Well," Hicks spoke up, "Drake always tries to do things his own way and for the most part we let him. However, the one who doesn't tolerate deviation much is-"

"Corporal Hicks!"

"Sergeant Apone, sir," Hicks slid into perfect attention and James fidgeted with his own impulse to do the same.

The sergeant stomped up to the two and eyed the both of them, especially James. "So this is the last of the transfers, huh?"

"Yes, sergeant," Hicks answered, "This is James, uh...?"

"Ozymandias, maintenance technician."

"Maintenance Technician James Ozymandias, sergeant," Hicks said.

"Maintenance tech, eh," Sergeant Apone tested title and found it lacking. "What are you good for son?"

"Sergeant," James began, "I'm rated to operate all powered equipment on station, I've a background in engineering, and I'm well versed in survival techniques for hazardous conditions. If you need a barricade set up or a special tool put to use, I'm your guy. And you shouldn't need to worry too much if I get separated." James' list of recommendations was delivered in absolute seriousness.

"Well, I'll be," Sergeant Apone intoned, "Am I right to believe a good foxhole is also within your skill set?"

James cracked a slight smile, "I'm just as effective with a shovel, sir."

"Mmm-hmm," the sergeant grumbled appreciatively, "A regular good-with-all, eh? Jack of all trades, master of all."

"It's a requirement to work and survive out here, sergeant," James explained. "Talk to anyone around and they'll all have engineering experience of some sort and be more than capable of handling themselves in the glasslands."

"Hmmm. Where'd you serve, son?" Sergeant Apone asked seemingly out of nowhere, catching James of guard. "The way you speak and hold yourself is a dead giveaway," Apone explained, "So what branch?"

"Marine Corp, 77th Division," James answered a little hesitantly.

"77th?" Apone's eyes, his only visible features, conveyed a sense of awe at what he'd just heard. "Well I'll be goddamned! An example of a true blue marine here in front of me now." Apone's demeanor had morphed into that of a quintessential gung-ho sergeant. All he was missing was a cigar.

"No doubt you've seen some shit, James. You'll fit in just fine around here," Sergeant Apone motioned towards the bird behind him, "Hicks, show him his seat we're moving out." Corporal Hicks acknowledged and, gesturing for James to follow, they parted ways with the sergeant. At the open ramp end of the Pelican, Hicks introduced the last few members of Combat Team A.

"James, This is our corpsman," Hicks waved to a woman sitting on the edge of the Pelican's troop bay, more affectionately known as the 'blood tray' in more official military circles. "Corporal Cynthia Dietrich. If you need a patch up she's the go to and if you need a second opinion she's always willing to provide."

"Not like you've taken advantage of that, "Dietrich's only visible feature, her eyes, sparkled with humor. "Jackass."

Hicks chuckled and waved at the final member of the team. "Last but not least, our scout/sniper, Private Ricco Frost. And if you think you can give him a surprise bear hug just because he's a ranged specialist... Well he's also got a black belt for every day of the week and the moves to show for it."

"How long did it take you to think that up Hicks?" Frost quipped shaking his head, "I thought we'd well established humor is not your strong suit."

"Ha," Hicks croaked, "And you're only saying that because you don't hold a candle to the likes of Hudson or Drake."

Frost only shrugged in response. "Whatever you say, man."

"James," Hicks pointed to the dropship, "grab a chair. The rest the team will be in in a minute."

James complied and climbed into the back of the Pelican as Hicks went another direction. Inside he found a pair of familiar faces, one belonging to his long time friend Abe. The other was Wilhelm Schmidt. The man who first warned Verboten about the attackers. Both, like James, were equipped to venture into an unknown and potentially hazardous environment with fully enclosed heavy gear each a suit of armor in and of itself. It was based off the military's own MOPP gear and intended for use in the glasslands, as was much of the equipment fielded by LDC.

Pleasantries were exchanged between the three workers as the soldiers began to file in and take seats. Privates Drake and Vasquez were particularly eye catching with their bulky gear and guns that dwarfed the rest of their squadmates. Drake took the seats directly in front of James giving the technician a clear view of the words stenciled to the front of his extra armored vest, _'Eat the Apple and Fuck the Corps.'_ A clear view into Drake's feelings about the marines if ever there was one. On the second seat he lovingly set his modified M247 along with a cylindrical drum clearly labeled 2500x 7.62mm.

James took that information in with little outward emotion, but on the inside he coped with his shock by doing the math. A 7.62 by 51 millimeter bullet was roughly 10 grams, 2500 multiplied by 10 was 25000 grams equivalent to around 50 pounds of bullets. Combined with the drum itself, the gun, the armored vest that apparently doubled as a harness for the drum, and the standard equipment he wore underneath it all, Drake had to be hauling around 150 pounds or more of gear. Vasquez had an identical loadout and both acted as if it was no heavier than a sleeping roll.

Drake caught onto James' staring and locked eyes. "I know that look. You're wondering how me and Vas can haul all this around and be effective. All new guys have the same question. The answer: we're just that bad." A cocky sneer was plastered across his face.

James slightly nodded, feigning acceptance. "I'm more worried about what would happen if that drum took a round and cooked off," he stated.

Drake's expression became deathly serious, "Now listen, Private Maintenance, that drum is a centimeter of tank armor. It would several high powered rounds to put a hole in it." He leaned forward slightly, eyes boring into James. "And I don't like being referred to as a walking frag,' he warned.

James caught the message easily enough, but there was still one question, "Private Maintenance?"

Drake's eye twitched, possibly out of irritation, "You don't live like I've lived and not be a good judge of character. You're quiet and not very assertive, couldn't have made it passed corporal. And you're a maintenance tech, so; Private Maintenance. Also, don't ever expect to lay a finger on _My Bitch._ "

"Or _Adios_ ," Vasquez interjected, her eyes staring daggers at James.

The last LDC-SEC soldier to jump aboard was Sergeant Apone. "Combat Team Alpha," he began addressing the group from the center of the Pelican's troop bay, "I'm sure you've all heard the gist of what we're doing, but allow me to fill in the blanks. An attack that left almost two dozen dead has occurred!" The sergeant's tone rose in crescendo. "And we're going to find the bastards who did it and show 'em what happens when you mess with Mama Liang and Uncle Dortmund!" He took in a breath and observed with satisfaction the men and women around him. "LDC-Security, am I right!?" he shouted.

"Sir, yes, sir!" poured out of the Pelican

"Mmm-hmm. Damn Right, I am. Now listen up!" Sergeant Apone began pacing up and down the Pelican's length. "Intel suggests that our enemy is so robust he doesn't need any fancy-shmancy guns. Just two sticks and a rock for a whole platoon and they have to share the rock!" The sergeant stopped at the front of the troop bay. "And what do we know about sticks and stones, boys!?"

Hudson leaned out and looked up at Apone. Even though his eyes were the only part of his face visible, they positively gleamed. "Sir, sticks and stones may break my bones-"

"But don't do shit 'gainst heavy armor." Drake interrupted to Hudson's chagrin.

Apone however was very happy with the answer. " My Lord, we just might pull this off," he said with a hidden smile as he stepped through the doorway to the cockpit. Soon enough the dropship's engines began warming up and the team's point of conversation shifted to their new enemy.

"Never seen real swords anywhere but old pictures. Any idea why these guys are using 'em?'

"Could be an Innie cell that ran out of gear."

"Ha! That and they have access to teleportation tech? Get real."

"Why are we calling the teleporter a gate again?'

"Because it looks like a fucking gate right out of some ancient Earth city."

"But who would design it that way and why?"

"I don't know Wierz. Maybe you can ask 'em when we find 'em."

"Hey, James," It was Hicks seated closer to the hatch on James' right, "I saw some of the bodies they were carting away. Any idea what kind of armor they were wearing?'

"What's that matter?" Vasquez interjected, "It didn't help 'em then. It sure as shit's not helping 'em now," She patted her M247, "All I need to know is where they are and it'll be like mowing a field," she swept a finger gun across the troop bay to accentuate her point.

James didn't pay Vasquez any attention and answered, "There wasn't much special about it. All their armor was colored black with a few accents. They had seemingly decorative protrusions on their helmets, possibly for psychological effect. I'd say the only detail of interest was the few who carried shields had an emblem emblazoned on their front."

"And what did this emblem look like?'

/

General Hazama stepped into the makeshift interrogation room and surveyed the prisoner seated at a table before him. He'd been identified as a leader simply because of the added complexity of his equipment which had all been striped away leaving him in filthy undergarments. The General had removed his enclosed helmet revealing his short brown hair, well trimmed moustache, and general Asiatic features.

Before taking his own seat, Hazama brought the object in his hand to eye level. It was a small buckler shield beyond ancient in design with an emblem of a golden sun with a hollow black center on the front. The General twirled the shield around in his hands and make a general show of looking it over before unceremoniously tossing it in the corner. The prisoner for the most part showed little reaction to the blatant disrespect displayed to the sigil of whatever faction he represented.

Hazama took the available seat and keyed a communications receiver in his ear. "Are we good? You licensing?"

The General nodded as the presence on the other side acknowledged and launched into the required formalities. "My name is General Koichiro Hazama," he said gesturing at himself, "I'm the commanding officer of the local branch of the paramilitary organisation; Liang-Dortmund Corporation-Security."

The prisoner made no response.

Hazama narrowed his eyes as he continued, "I'm required to inform you you and your men will be treated fairly in accord to the Human Prisoner or War Conventions of 2555."

Still no response.

"Could you please identify yourself for the record?"

Nothing.

Hazama rubbed his hand across his face, becoming visibly irritated. "I would like to state that not cooperating is not in your best interest."

The presence on the other side of the General's COM caught his attention, "Are you sure? Why didn't the reports mention this? Dammit!"

He turned back to the prisoner, "Can you understand or comprehend anything I'm saying?" He increasingly felt like he was talking to a wall. "Do you speak English?"

The prisoner gave no indication of comprehension or recognition of what the General was saying. In exasperation Hazama stood up and paced in circles for moment. "It appears a language barrier is in place," he stated to the licensing devices as much as himself.

A look towards the shield lying on the floor and back to the prisoner gave Hazama a rather farfetched idea. He withdrew a circular metallic object from his pocket and set it on the table. Hazama keyed his COM, "Could you please introduce yourself?"

The device began to glow a yellowish hue and not long after a holographic image of a figure in a HAZMAT suit sprang into being. The prisoner reacted as Hazama had hoped he wouldn't meaning there was a high possibility that his crazy hypothesis could have a shred of truth. The prisoner attempted to leap from his seat but with the restraints he only managed to fall to the floor. He then began trying to kick himself away from the AI all the while frantically muttering and screaming in a way that didn't seem like gibberish to Hazama just a language he couldn't understand.

"What was the point of this, General?" the AI asked in a genderless tone.

"If we're to break down this barrier we need him to talk," Hazama explained. "I hope you've been analysing what we're hearing?"

"Yes," the AI stated slightly indignantly. "The language appears to have roots in the Germanic family of Old Earth languages yet it's garbled. Some of the pronunciations are off and a few word meanings are switched."

"A few meanings?" Hazama said. "Is there anything you've been able to translate so far?"

"The first word he said was, _'geest'._ Dutch for ghost."

"Hmm," Hazama thought everything through with his hand on his chin while the prisoner was still muttering incoherently and had managed to shove himself against the wall. "Connect the dots," Hazama told the AI, "We're dealing with a group who make use of primitive arms and armor, don't speak of understand English, and apparently," he waved at the prisoner, "they fear ghosts."

"No logical conclusion is available, sir."

Hazama found himself pondering the three robed individuals who reportedly made use of some form of heavy ranged attack yet no evidence of such a weapon had been found. Then there was the one who'd made a break for it and escaped through some form of portal from out of nowhere. Nothing seemed to make sense and he steadfastly refused to pin it all on magic.

The prisoner had finally quieted down though he remained curled up against the wall. Hazama strolled up to him, knelt down, and took hold of a handful of greasy hair. "We'll resume this conversation soon enough," the General's expression turned sinister, "Then you're telling me everything." Hazama tightened his grip causing the prisoner to flinch. The General then slammed the prisoner's head against the floor hard and he went limp.

"For the record," Hazama said as he stood up, "The prisoner's adverse reaction to the appearance of an AI avatar led to self destructive behavior. Physical intervention was required." He turned to the AI, "Hazard, I trust you'll doctor the footage and recordings as necessary?"

"Yes, sir," the AI, Hazard, said.

Hazama took one last look at the unconscious prisoner. "How are we on force deployment?"

"Bravo and Indi companies are ready and waiting, sir," Hazard answered. "Another four companies are mobilising as we speak and the entire Mesan Security Force is on stand by."

"And the gate?"

"Secured."

"How is it that a group of humanity could've seemingly missed the last thousand years of technological and sociological advancement?" Hazama mused aloud mostly for his own sake.

"Unknown, sir," Hazard said, "Perhaps we'll find the answer beyond the gate."

"One can only hope," Hazama stated before shifting back to the matter at hand. "Have the forward units deploy drones. I want to know what's immediately past the gate. Once that's done we'll head in with what we've got, establish a beachhead, and await reinforcements."

Hazama left the interrogation room and ordered the guards to return the prisoner. "May God have mercy on them," he said with a certain steel as he donned his breather helmet and exited the barracks turned holding area.

/

 **A/N: Well I'm here again and I hope I wasn't missed too badly. When I initially wrote the first chapter I didn't think anything serious would come of it. It was more of an experiment that a commitment and in a way it still is. Yet the limited feedback I got was pretty much universally positive and the more I thought about it the more I liked the story myself. So I'll continue it along with my other story, but I still can't guarantee regular updates.**

 **Regarding my choices so far. This was at first envisioned as a Halo and Gate: Thus the JSDF Fought There (that title's such a mouthful) crossover as Gate is literally one 3 animes I can stand. But with further research I found that the premise and setting is a bit overused so I switched over to Witcher for originalities sake and because it's similar setting wise. A couple of old details weren't written out like the architecture of the gate and the blue haired mage and I don't think I'll change that.**

 **Regarding the Aliens team. It's been a goal of mine to try and write a Sergeant Johnson-esq character and because I don't want to deal with explaining his resurreccion I decided to bring in the good sergeant who inspired the greater sergeant. And come one come all, why not?"**

 **So that's Glasslands to Swamplands as it stands. Follow, Fav, and Review.**


	3. Chapter 3: Strangers in Strange Lands

Chapter 3: Strangers in Strange Lands

September 25, 2580

0852 Hours

If anything could be said about a two hour flight across a roasted wasteland of vitrified silicates, it was anything if not picturesq. The Pelican's troop bay door had reopened after takeoff, giving the occupants a narrow but breathtaking view of the jagged landscape.

"Oh crap! Guys, they're at it again!" Trevor Wierzbowski called out, cradling the team's radio set. His announcement caused a slight commotion amongst the rest of the soldiers.

"Yeah, well who's winning?" Drake demanded.

"Move over! I gotta hear this!" Hudson charged from his seat, a dangerous thing to do in a moving Pelican with an open hatch, and knelt next to Trevor.

The radioman handed Hudson the set who then plugged it into the side of his helmet. "Whoa, Major Thorn is giving Old Tire Chew a serious piece of her mind."

James could no longer hold his curiosity over the what was occurring right in front of him and asked over the team COM channel, "What's this all about?"

Hicks was the first to answer, "Basically we've got two commanders of equal rank duking it out for the top spot." He leaned forward in his seat and looked right at James. "Right now there's two companies ready and waiting to charge through the gate but only room for one at a time. So the question is who goes first," Hicks explained.

"On one side we have First Battalion commander Major Hiram Macintyre demanding that his Bravo Company lead the charge with their heavy armor, weapons, and artillery. On the other hand we have our own Second Battalion commander Major Melissa Hawthorne saying that Indi Company, as a light armored scout force, would be a better option," he said. Then added with a smile, "When this happens it tends to make a fun listen."

"How come you have direct access to command's COMs?" James wondered.

"Because we're one of the handful of VIP units whose word is law," Hicks said, "What we ask for, say, and encounter goes directly to the battalion HQ." James returned to staring at the floor, his questions mostly answered.

The Pelican's intercom unit chirped and the pilot's voice spoke up, _"Anyone back there ever seen a bullet shot back into the barrel?"_ The question elicited a series of bemused and curious comments. _"Well have a look. I'm turning this bird around."_

The pelican rotated until the team got their first unobstructed look at the site through the open hatch. It was undeniably once a metropolitan four way intersection. Highrise ruins were dotted all around and a layer of fine black ash coated everything. Despite this, the area was a hive of activity as LDC-SEC personnel and vehicles scurried around setting up a containment perimeter and staging area. In the center of it all was the point of everything. A white marble columned archway that stood out beyond blatantly. Its interior was an abyss given a color of black that put the surrounding ash to shame.

Laid out in front of the arch was a runway of metal grates and at the end was the distinct shape of an old F99 Wombat. The Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle was likely to be the initial recon into the area beyond the arch.

As that thought sunk into the minds of Combat Team A the wombat's engines fired up and its running lights blinked. With machinelike unhesitation the drone shot forward and disappeared through the arch. The squeeze was tight but the expert controllers behind the drone managed it.

" _Alright, strap in,"_ tha voice of the pilot said, _"The fun's been had and I've been giving permission to land."_

/

"What the hell just happened?" a uniformed LDC-SEC officer leaned over the shoulder of the drone controller seated in front of him. "Playback the feed."

The controller compiled and the images from the Wombat's nose mounted optics appeared on the screen. Initially, they showed the drone idling on the newly installed runway before it launched forward. As it hit the black abyss of the gate, static washed across the feed which quickly dissipated enough to allow blurry shapes and images to be discerned before the feed cut off entirely.

"Slow it down, would you?" the officer asked.

The controller did as asked and began examining the feed frame by frame. Once the static from the gate washed away he paused it. The blurry image resolved into a picture of soldiers in identical armor as described from the previous night's attack approaching the arch along a dirt roadway. They didn't even have time to change their expressions before the camera collided with their ranks and the feed cut.

"Onboard computer must've registered the impacts as incoming fire," the controller hypothesised, "Probably evaded right into the ground."

He looked up at the officer, "This is why we don't fly drones that low or thread needles like that arch."

"The drone was supposed to attain altitude once through," the officer retorted.

"Well that didn't happen," the controller replied, "And why are we using Wombats? Something with VTOL capability would be much more appropriate."

The officer gave a look of incredulity to the controller," Was that brought up with the COs?"

"Yes, and they told my CO to politely shut it."

"Not surprising," the officer shrugged, "The only VTOL drones we have are ARGUS sniffers."

"And?"

"They're meant to detect chemical, radiological, and mineral compositions and only have a basic targeting package."

"A camera is a camera. Even if the resolution is shit, we'll at least be able to make out landforms and enemy movements.'

The officer took a moment to ponder the controllers argument. "I'll bring this up with the General."

/

1130 Hours

At exactly the time specified, First Platoon of Indi Company reported to the briefing tent and filled out the available seating. Several senior officers of both company and battalion level were seated in front while one lanky officer in particular stood up near the holoscreen.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the standing officer began, "I'm Lieutenant Scott Gorman, newly designated leader of First Platoon. This briefing is meant to bring you all up to speed on the ongoing situation and our objectives moving forward. To start with…"

" _Hey,"_ Private Tim Crowe nudged his fellow radioman, Wierzbowski, and spoke in a whisper, _"How is this guy our new CO? Who even is he?"_

' _All I know is he's a graduate of Luna OCS,"_ Wierzbowski answered.

" _Luna OCS!?"_ Crowe quietly exclaimed, _"The Naval Officer Candidate School on Luna! The moon of Earth!"_

" _Yeah. Recruited right after graduation I heard. He's a-"_

"Private!" Lieutenant Gorman called out, cutting off Wierzbowski. "Third row, fifth from the left, what's your name?"

"Private Ricco Frost, sir." Frost was seated in the row in front of Crowe and Wierzbowski yet he'd been singled out.

"Please summarize what I just said, private." Gorman demanded.

"Sir, you explained in detail how the terrain just beyond the gate is a triangularly shaped headland with a mountainous ridgeline dominating the center with forests and mountain plains along the slopes," Frost rattled off.

Gorman momentarily froze, the reason for his outburst suddenly questionably. When no one else spoke up, he did, "Good ear, private. Make certain your squadmates are paying attention. Now, as I was saying…"

" _Awesome guys,"_ Frost whispered over his shoulder at Crowe and Wierzbowski, _"He immediately forgot my name."_

" _Ah well,"_ Crowe replied and bumped Frost's shoulder, _"Thanks for catching us up."_

They tuned back into what Lieutenant Gorman was saying. "Drone recon also identified a village style settlement at the base of the hill. Command suspects some form of civilian presence so check fire accordingly."

"The village also seems to house the enemy's headquarters as well as a supply and staging area. First Platoon's objective is to secure this village and all surrounding installations by way of a light armored assault," the lieutenant said with conviction.

" _Sarge is gonna have a field day with this one."_

" _Oh, yeah. Freaking navy shavetail."_

 _/_

1703 Hours

Indi Company, as a light mechanized scout force, found it's main mode of transport in the venerable Warthog. An all wheel drive, all terrain, all purpose utility vehicle that had nearly three centuries of private and military service to its name. Combat Team A had been granted the use of three such vehicles, two were outfitted with M46 fifty calibre machine guns and the third was purely for transport. Apone, Hicks, Drake, Vasquez, Hudson, and Frost manned the gun-hogs while the rest were crammed into the transport hog.

The call arrived late in the day. Indi Company was ultimately chosen for the initial incursion, but first there was a little problem to deal with. The ARGUS makeshift reconnaissance drones had spotted a third column of enemy infantry approaching the arch. News of what had happened with the Wombat was already common knowledge amongst the LDC-SEC soldiers. That the enemy would continue to throw soldiers where few had returned was just baffling to them.

Combat Team A's Warthogs were positioned at the front of the column consisting of 250 LDC-SEC personnel mounted on a fleet of almost 50 Warthogs facing the arch. Around them a cordon of machine guns and sandbags manned by riflemen of Hotel Company also faced the arch, but when the signal arrived it would be Indi Company who would charge and Combat Team A who would lead the charge.

"So, Vasquez," Hudson called from his spot on the turret, "You'd best keep your head down. I wouldn't want to shoot it again."

"Do that, and I'll throw you off this truck myself," Vasquez warned, "Once we're past this thing just keep your fire to the left and rear. I got front and right."

" _So this is it, eh,"_ James questioned over SQUADCOM, _"We're just gonna roll through, shoot everything up and then what?"_

" _What are you expecting, son?"_ Sergeant Apone retorted, _"A rousing speech from the General himself? Maybe Uncle Dortmund will roll out from the pearly above and grant us his heavenly blessing! I don't know. What I do know is we have been given a job and we, mounted on our 4-wheeled beasts of divine burden, will tackle that job at the waist, lay it on its back, and beat every tooth out of its mouth, laughing! Now buckle up, boy. It's starting."_

James leaned over toCorporal Cynthia Dietrich, the driver of the transport hog, "How many of these spiels should I expect out of the sergeant?"

"Try one before every major engagement," she answered.

"Jesus."

"What?" Private Crowe interjected, "Don't like it?"

"It's not that," James answered, "It's just freakishly familiar."

/

Sergeant Apone's words soon proved prophetic. Black armored soldiers with a hollow sun emblazoned on their chests didn't just materialize into existence so much as step into view. The abyss of the arch didn't react in any way. It was as if they were moving out of a shadow.

The enemy filed into the short space between the arch and the LDC-SEC force, primitive weapons held defensively. To them the full visored and armored figures holding inexplicably objects and the growling engines of the Warthog's were terrifyingly alien.

One of the Hotel Company sergeants stood up from behind his sandbag cover and brought a megaphone style device up to his face. "Alright, only because it's proper, you have to the count of five to put down your weapons and surrender!" The sergeant's enhanced voice was translated by software installed into the megaphone to a slurry of garbage incomprehensible to the rest of the force.

"One!"

The enemy in the front milled around cluelessly as more of their comrades marched in. The rear knew nothing of what was happening up front.

"Two!"

"Three!"

Shields fell into a defensive position, spears were pointed outwards. An arrow was nocked.

"Four!"

An unsteady hand let go of his bowstring. The unleashed arrow flew wide and splintered on the armored plating of a machine gun.

"OPEN FIRE!"

Every trigger finger on the cordon flexed and the crowd of black armored soldiers was swept back to the arch like grass under a mower.

"Keep firing!" the sergeant shouted, "Keep firing!"

Bullets poured into and vanished through the arch for a full minute before the fire slackened.

A voice called out through the company COM channel, _"Indi Company, forward and good luck."_

The tone of rumbling engines changed as gears were shifted and accelerators were depressed. The transport hog carrying James was third through the arch and after a feeling of passing through a slimy membrane like the shields from the other night the first thing he noticed from this mysterious beyond was sunlight. He knew the light should have felt warm but he felt nothing through the full bodied enviro-suit he wore. Regret welled up in him as the last time he'd felt true sunlight was years before his discharge from the military.

Under the sun wild grass and flowers grew as they saw fit on a coastal slope leading to a blue ocean. Squat trees swayed in a breeze that should have been cool, but again James couldn't feel it. His respirator did however allow the smell of salt through. Greens, blues, reds, yellows, all were colors he'd consigned himself to never again unless displayed on a screen.

The Warthog violently began to jump, pitch, and dip the moment it exited the arch. The reason why was abundantly clear. They'd emerged on road more accurately described as a dirt track cut into a coastal slope. The track was littered with the dead and dying of the black armored enemy. Their numbers demolished by the LDC-SEC barrage, stragglers sprinted and stumbled in every direction to get away. Those who tried to scramble up the slope were easy pickings for the fifty calibre guns while the ones who fled downwards had more cover but were no less vulnerable to being picked off.

James riddled a handful with his submachine gun and watched them flail and die. He felt his emotions begin to conflict. One hand he knew he'd avenge his friends who died in the initial attack but on the other he was now invading a virgin land that had never encountered the power that the Liang-Dortmund Corporation had brought to bear. These soldiers in black armor alone had no conceivable defense against the weapons of LDC-SEC. It was nearly comparable to outright slaughter in James' mind.

He banished that thought immediately as his military conditioning kicked in. Freezing in contemplation was the last thing to in a situation like this. James tuned into the conversations happening over SQUADCOM to keep focused.

" _Sarge, how do we know we're going the right way?"_ Hicks questioned.

" _Cause I have a map, corporal,"_ Sergeant Apone's tone couldn't have highlighted the idiocy of the question any better. _"Keep straight. Once we pass a wide turn we'll see a tower structure. A ways past that is the target."_

On a handful of occasions along the road the team encountered enemy squads possibly on patrol or heading to investigate the commotion. Every one of them smartly dove out of the way of the charging warthogs but were still cut to pieces for their trouble.

The wide turn to the left mentioned by Apone passed soon enough and the tower also came into sight. It was decrepit, obviously ancient, built of bleached stones, mortar, and rotting wood.

The tower was also occupied. Enemy soldiers moved along the crumbling ramparts and palisade of fresh logs straddled the road and connected to ruined rock walls. The gate through was presently open.

" _Move it! Charge through! Don't stop!"_ Apone ordered.

" _We're not securing this position?"_ someone asked over the COM.

" _We'll soften it up for the next team but our objective is farther on,"_ Apone explained. _"Gunners, keep us covered and keep that gate open!"_ A chorus of acknowledgments flowed through the COM.

Several enemy soldiers tried to run out and pull the gates shut but never made it far. The machine guns then moved their focus to the walls and ramparts and laid into whatever was up there. The Warthogs charged by the tower with ease but no one relaxed.

" _Hudson! I swear I told you not to shoot over my head,"_ the voice of Vasquez griped.

" _You said not to shoot you_ in _the head,"_ Hudson replied, _"HUGE difference if you ask me."_ Vasquez grumbled something about showing Hudson the 'real difference' and the COMs went silent.

Combat Team A ate up the remaining distance between the tower and the village with ease. Once they crested the last rise they got their first view of the target. It was a village straight out of ancient Earth history and stories. The dwellings were little more that huts with straw thatched roofs and log walls. People in ragged garments straight out of European folklore scrambled at the sight of the Warthogs barreling down on them.

Just beyond in a field, the team could see a collection of hundreds of black tents arranged in square military tidiness. The hollow sun emblem was prominently displayed on dozens of swaying pennants and banners.

" _I don't want to see or hear about a single civi casualty,"_ Apone boomed, _"Bypass the village! Hit the tent town!"_

The Warthogs wove their way through the widest avenues in the village and only ran over a few fences. Any remaining villagers quickly fled to the nearest hut. Doors were slammed and ratty curtains appeared over every window. Several children were left forgotten outside and watched as Combat Team A roared by. Hudson threw the group of kids a two fingered salute from his position on the gun which was emulated by handful of the observing children.

Once outside the village it was a measly fifty meter dash to the encampment. Enemy personnel could be seen scurrying about trying in some way to meet the oncoming Warthogs. All their efforts were for nothing.

The gun-hogs aligned themselves with the pathways between tents and plunged down the center of the camp. Tent ropes snapped under the Warthog's tires and the structures collapsed. Braziers were pitched over and their smouldering contents set the surroundings on fire. Enemy soldiers were either clipped or outright run over by the rampaging vehicles. All the while the mounted machine guns and the modified M247s held by Drake and Vasquez chattered away, mulching men and tents alike. It took almost thirty seconds to go from one end of the camp to the other.

When the Warthogs burst through the opposite side of the camp they shifted their direction to their right and began navigating the circumference of the camp. The machine guns didn't pause, but keep chipping away at the target. Meanwhile the transport hog had come to a stop just short of the encampment and the rest of First Platoon also began showing up.

"This is our stop," Dietrich called out as she and the two radiomen piled out.

"What are we doing?" James asked as he too climbed out.

"We're the support crew," Dietrich explained, "So we stay back and be ready to support."

Tim Crowe pulled a marksman's rifle out of the warthog's rear storage compartment. Like much of the rest of LDC-SEC's equipment the rifle was an old war era M392. "That doesn't mean we can't practice our sharpshooting," he racked the rifle's bolt.

Wierzbowski and Dietrich procured identical weapons and steadied themselves on a small rise. James and the two other LDC operators positioned themselves behind the soldiers, ready to cover them with their short ranged weapons.

Dietrich, Wierzbowski, and Crowe all began firing down into the camp, picking off the scurrying figures one by one. The Warthogs continues their murderous circuit until nearly every tent on the camp's edge had collapsed and not a single tent remained undamaged. A signal was given and the machine gun fire ceased, allowing the remainder of First Platoon the chance to swoop in and mop up anything left. The two gun-hogs idled to a stop near James' position and the drivers hopped out leaving the gunners to guard their backs.

Sergeant Apone stopped about halfway up the rise which put him at eye level with the crouched soldiers. "Corporal Dietrich," he acknowledged, "Take our embedded engineers and start up a triage. Hicks, Hudson, Frost, you're all with them. Drake, Vasquez, put those hogs in a position to provide overwatch."Both Drake and Vasquez swapped to the driver's seats and move to find such positions.

Apone's gaze swept over Crowe and Wierzbowski, "Get me a line to HQ. We need to report in."

"Sarge, look," Hicks was pointing off into the distance and everyone turned to follow his finger. James for the first time since the arch tuned into the world around him and realized the thunder and rattling of weapons fire had gotten really close.

Hicks was pointing out a clearing visible to what everyone wanted to call north-ish but since coming through the arch everyone's' sense of direction had been scrambled. Hundreds of black armored enemy soldiers could be seen streaming across the clearing. The entire force that had occupied this area obviously in full retreat and in their midst, running them over, tearing them up was a group of LDC colored Scorpion Main Battle Tanks. The M808C variant that had been the backbone of human armored warfare for centuries and like the rest of their equipment: recently replaced.

"Oh for…" Sergeant Apone stifled a rant, "Get my that line now. If those Bravo Company dicks get surrounded it's our asses pulling them out of the fire. You all have your jobs, move it!"

James glanced down at his wrist mounted timepiece; 1735 hours. It had only taken them 30 minutes to deploy and overwhelm this position.

/

1955 Hours

The tent town's demolition was almost thorough. What handful that still stood were shredded with holes and held up by one or two tent poles. Combat Team A and First Platoons' ongoing mission for the last two hours was to completely clear off the battlefield. Other Indi Company teams had shown up to help and so far enough room had been cleared for LDC-SEC to tow in a handful of prefabricated structures; little more than a complex of interconnected cargo containers. The structures were put to use as a medical base for enemy injured with a squad of medics attending them while every healthy and unharmed prisoner was herded back towards the arch.

"Got a live one here!" Frost called out and pulled his sidearm. The 'live one' in question stood out slightly from the usual members of the as of yet unidentified enemy faction. Instead of a bulky suit of armor he was clad in a disheveled leather uniform, hollow sun proudly displayed, and several satchels hanging from his waist. Probably a courier.

Frost's call attracted the attention of several of his squadmates. "This one's yours, Frosty." Hudson stated and promptly found a seat on an unbroken crate.

Frost didn't complain but moved to intercept. The man who was now a target wandered aimlessly in semi-circular patterns. He could have been incapacitated in any way and buried by a falling tent. It must've appeared like he'd stepped into a different world with all the familiar wreckage lying around that had been upright and proper not too long ago.

"Lay down your weapons and get on the ground. Hands above your head." Frost laid out the usual demands. Proper protocol and procedure had to be followed in apprehending an adversary. Command wanted total accountability.

The translation software that couldn't have been more than eight hours old did its thing. The man heard Frost speak then again in a garbled iteration of his own tongue and reacted mostly as expected. He scooped up a piece of broken tent pole and ran at Frost.

Not once falling for the urge to sigh, roll his eyes, or anything to express his disappointment, Frost simply dropped into an appropriate ready stance and put his pistol away. When the enemy was in range and swung his stick Frost blocked it with his armored left forearm and retaliated with a punch to the gut. As the man doubled over, Frost step to the side and delivered an open handed strike to his exposed back sending him to the ground. Frost then gathered up the downed man's arms and pinned them to his back with his knee.

Hudson appeared a moment later and tossed Frost a pair of binders. He then started rummaging through the incapacitated man's person pulling out pages and pages full of illegible notes and drawings that resembled maps. He set those aside to be sent up to command and turn his attention to a trio of leather pouches held closed by simple strings. Hudson undid one and dumped the jangling contents into his hand. Both Frost and Hudson exchanged startled yet gleeful looks at the fistful of blatantly gold coins Hudson held.

"Holy damn!" Frost exclaimed as he finished tightening the binders, "How much you got?"

Hudson slid the coins back into the pouch and bounced it up and down. "Half a pound, easy."

"What's that back-"

-Home," Hudson giddily finished. "Well, depending on the purity, up to 15 grand maybe." He tossed one of the pouches at Frost who caught it gingerly and slipped it into one of his own pouches.

"What are you going to do with that third one?" Frost asked.

"Finders keep the most but I won't leave the others out," Hudson said. "I'll give them a share.

Frost nodded and their attention turned back to the newly captured prisoner. "You my man," Hudson chirped, "have just earned yourself first in line to meet the General. On your feet."

/

2015 Hours

The collection of boards masquerading as a door shook violently as Hicks smashed his fist into it over and over. No one answered. He did it again, and again, and again to identical effect.

Hicks allowed himself a moment of frustration. Each and every hut his half of Combat Team A had been assigned to search had been a repeat of the last: no response, break down the door, sweep and secure. It had become monotonous for a few reasons.

Hick's leg cocked back and struck. The door didn't fly back on its hinges so much as fly apart into individual boards. Second Squad, the designation of his half of Combat Team A, filed through with weapons up and steady.

The hut was nearly identical to the previous ones. Rickety wooden furniture occupied every corner, the floor was composed of splintery wood boards, and the walls were covered with shelves upon shelves of wood and earthenware dishes, tools, and objects. One glassless window stood out on the far wall and an empty doorframe lead to an adjacent room.

Dietrich and Crowe immediately moved in and begun hunting for anything hidden or noteworthy. Hicks slipped into the connected room and found exactly what he had come to expect.

The room was a communal bedroom. One large sleeping area dominated nearly half of the cramped space and the rest was barely enough for the small number of storage chests and shelves scattered about. A family of four was desperately trying to melt into the floorboards of the furthest corner. A brother, sister, mother, and father all huddled in apparent fear of the strangers at their door.

"It is okay now. We will not hurt you," Hicks spoke, enunciating every syllable for the translation but knowing what would happen.

The software did its thing and the father of the family replied while the rest cowered further. Hick's frustration only grew. The man's reply was just like all the rest; in a second completely different language then the one spoken by the black armored soldiers and unrecognizable to the translators.

"Stay here. Do not move," Hicks pushed his palm out in the hopefully universal stay put gesture and turned back to his squad. "Anything?"

"Same as all the rest," Dietrich called out, "Nothing but grotty food and cookware."

James choose that moment to walk in the door past Vasquez on guard duty with his SMG cradled in both arms. "So, all done?" he asked.

Hicks nodded his answer.

"Well then, is now a good time to talk about the elephant rampaging around the room?"

"Oh, what's that?" Dietrich sarcastically said.

James simply splayed his arms out and spun around slowly, indicating the area around him. "I can't be the only one wondering where we are and how we got here. Am I? And it's been hours now."

"Well," Crowe spoke up, "if you've kept up with the science journals you'd know that teleportation isn't as far fetched as it once was. The government science types are getting closer to it every day."

"But that's only half the problem," James countered. "Even if we've been caught up in some government experiment that doesn't explain how the people here are a thousand years out of date or why they attacked Verboten Station."

Maybe we time traveled," Crowe blurted, " to the past I mean."

"And we teleported to Earth," James shook his head. "That's just bull."

"Any other ideas," Crowe said dejectedly, "I'm stumped."

"Alternate reality, parallel dimensions, all of the above," Dietrich listed in disbelieving disinterest. "What I can certainly say these people are a bad egg away from an epidemic, their food is all nearly rotten, and I wouldn't even dare eat shit on the shingles they're passing off as dishes. Now my only question is since we're here what are we going to do?"

"Command hasn't said anything about that yet," Hicks said. ""We're all shook up about this but we need to stay the course if we want answers."

"Why should we do anything?" Vasquez asked, poking her head through the door. "We came here to beat the crap of 'em for what they did to Verboten. Why should we care about what happens after?"

"Because LDC is a mining corporation that just had the mother load of untapped resources dropped in its lap," Dietrich explained. "Once we've got the retribution for Verboten, if we haven't already, the bigwigs uptop are gonna set up shop and start digging. All I want to know is how are we gonna treat the locals when that happens."

"Again," Hicks interjected, "We don't know anything and we need to keep moving if we're gonna figure this out."

"Ah well, guard duty doesn't pay as well as hunting pirates but it's a significant bit safer," Vasquez retorted.

"Hold up," Crowe placed his hand to the side of his head where the communication gear connected. "Sarge's calling us back. Commands got a job for us apparently."

"Alright," Hicks said, "how many have we counted?

"With the four in there, 37 give or take a kid," Crowe answered.

"Anything suspicious?"

Dietrich shook her head.

"Send that up the line then," Hicks ordered. "Let's move it."

/

2045 hours

" _Okay team listen up,"_ Sergeant Apone's voice crackled over the radio. _"Frosty captured a guy with hard intel on him. It didn't take long to get him to read it to us."_

James was the last to hop aboard the transport hog with Drake and Vasquez both of whom had been temporarily replaced as gunners by the two radiomen. The three Warthog convoy began to roll forward and away from the new forward operating base. What was previously a staging area and encampment for the enemy was now a haisty but efficiently LDC-SEC outpost.

" _The intel pointed to a compound a click and half to the west. A high rank individual was supposed to be lodged there and we're gonna capture him."_

" _Anything on appearance or what we're supposed to look for?"_ Hicks asked.

" _Nope,"_ Apone bluntly replied, _"Keep your eyes peeled for anyone in a fancy outfit. That's our best hope at identifying the HVI."_

" _This couldn't have waited?"_ Hudson griped. _"Why didn't they at least allow us an hour's rest?"_

" _Because command wants to keep up the momentum, soldier,"_ Apone replied, _"They're grabbing at every lead they can find and they don't have the time to wait for your beauty rest. Now buckle up and keep driving."_

James tuned out and allowed his head to fall back. The rebreather built into his facemask made an odd noise as he allowed a yawn out. The day had been relentless, fast, and uncompromising. He'd only been able to get a few hours rest between the attack on Verboten and his integration with Combat Team A. James felt a moment of envy for Abe and Schmidt. As machine operators they'd been pulled back to help build the LDC's main base of operations around the arch. It seemed Dietrich's prediction would be coming true sooner rather than later.

The Warthogs sliced through a broad shallow river and bounced over the bank. James' gazed landed on the sun just now dipping below the eastern horizon. Yet it wasn't the only bright object in the sky. James observed several dozen balls flame fly in graceful arches towards the LDC-SEC side of the river.

"Sergeant, nine o'clock high," he called out.

" _Crowe, Wierzbowski, any word on an enemy counterattack?"_ Sergeant Apone immediately asked.

" _Negative sir."_ Crowe answered, _"They've batoned themselves down to weather the artillery and Bravo Company is preparing their response."_

"Sergeant, if I may ask, what is Bravo Company's response?" James questioned.

" _Two M400 Kodiaks and division record aim,"_ Apone replied nonchalantly.

"Best get ready for some fireworks," Drake added.

" _Sarge,"_ Wierzbowski called, _"Command just designated targets for Bravo's Kodiaks. Our compound's one of them."_

" _Ah, hell. Move it, people."_

"They won't shoot us, right?" James asked, his tension mounting.

" _Probably not,"_ Apone responded, _"but I still don't care for Bravo Company guns pointed in my direction."_

The target structure appeared from between the trees. A quartet of wood buildings strung together by a log wall situated on top of low hill. The road the hogs had been following passed into the compound by a gate where dark figures could be seen scrambling inside.

" _Hog 2 circle around and secure any rear entrances."_ Apone ordered, _"Hog 1 will hold this entrance. Drake and Vasquez are on point, Dietrich, James, you're on support. We'll box 'em in and work through 'em until we find the HVI,"_

A wave of militant acknowledgement sounded over the COM. James again suppressed the urge to join in. He wasn't military anymore then these guys were. They were mercenaries, paid killers. James had only been roped in with them because of his past and his first hand experience with this new enemy.

Hog 1 with Hudson, Frost, and Wierzbowski split off to the left and vanished from view. The distance between the Warthogs and the compound was rapidly closing as the the enemy's first response emerged. Word of the ineffectiveness of melee combat had apparently spread as archers and crossbowmen poured from the gate and began raining bolts and arrows at the charging vehicles. Most bounced off the Warthog's armor. The rest missed entirely.

James sunk his head between his shoulders and watched every projectile that came near him. He felt confident in his helmet's ability to take a hit and was ready to turn in to an impact if need be. It wasn't necessary.

The accuracy of the second hog's LAAG manned by Hicks trumped the enemy's in spades. Hicks moved the turret from left to right firing short bursts that all hit their mark. The smartest survivors either fell back or hit the ground prone in an attempt to weather out the fire. The latter of which only provided speed bumps for the hogs as they came to a parallel stop next to the wall.

Every LDC-SEC soldier, besides Hicks and Crowe manning the gun hog, moved to the gate. James hopped off and followed, ignoring the legs sticking out from under the tires. Drake and Vasquez went in first.

" _Sarge, we got a problem here,"_ Vasquez reported soon after.

Apone, Dietrich, and James all filtered through and found little of what they expected. Enemy soldiers were present and seemingly more preoccupied with finding ways to flee. However, they were outnumbered by the sheer amount of unarmed civilians milling around confused and equally scared.

"Shit, sarge," Vasquez exclaimed, "ROE?"

"Engage only if engaged," Apone explained. Just then a youthful looking soldier with a sword charged the LDC-SEC soldiers with a baleful look in his eye. Apone's MA5 shredded him. "Like that," the sergeant said.

The noise of high calibur gunfire sounded off at the otherside of the compound. Apone immediately called out on the COM. "Hudson, what are you shooting at?"

" _Couple of bolters, sir. All in uniform,"_ Hudson said calmly, _"Frost is keeping an eye out through the gate and we're aware of the civies."_

"Good. Hold position and watch your fire," Apone replied.

The squad observed the pandemonium momentarily. Noting how the enemy seemed to be to be trying to maintain a formation near the east wall to varying degrees of success.

" _Sergeant Apone!"_ Frost called out over the COM, _"I've got eyes on a group making a break for the east wall. Possibly trying to evacuate the HVI."_

"I see 'em," Apone replied and pointed out the group in question.

James had no issue in following Apone's direction. The group of fleeing enemies was around a dozen strong with a couple of figures that stood out. One was a man a head taller than those around him who briefly turned to glance at the LDC-SEC squad and gave James a good look at the frilly collar and the yellow pendant on a heavy chain he wore. The other was a woman who stood out the most with her ashy white hair and grey cloak possibly meant for traveling.

"We'll start there," Apone said, "Move to intercept! Go!"

The gunshots and the appearance of the LDC-SEC soldiers prompted many civilians to get out of the open, clearing the area a little and making it easier to predict where the enemy escort was going. The wall that fenced off the southwest corner of the compound where a squad of the enemy had placed an escape ladder.

Once Combat Team A began moving the residual black armored soldiers who'd figured out what was happening moved to impede them. The tall man with the frilly collar also noticed what was transpiring and yelled orders to his escort.

James' helmet caught and translated part of the orders, _"Empire-ah, protect empire-or."_ James silently cursed the unreliable software.

Part of the enemy escort broke off to meet them along with the regular soldiers. The new fighters wore heavier armor of a darker shade of black with black and white checker patterned cloth bands wrapped around their heads and thighs. They carried either a long handled ax or a short sword with a heavy shield.

The four LDC-SEC soldiers were the first to lash out with short bursts or single shots to avoid collateral. Every time they fired an enemy fell and when an enemy managed to get within melee range their weapons were knocked aside and handguns were were effectively put to use. Surely and rapidly Combat Team A carved their way through the opposition to reach their target.

James held himself back but did not abstain from the fight. When a enemy attempted to take advantage of a distracted Vasquez, James put him down. Whenever an black armored soldier got too close for Dietrich's DMR to be effective, James' cover was invaluable. His SMG was perfect for this sort of defensive fighting.

Though Combat Team A carved through the enemy with ease, they were slowed long enough for the two apparent targets to make it to the ladder. A couple soldiers scrambled up and over the wall first followed by the man in the frilly collar. He straddled the top of the wall and reached down seemingly to help the woman up. Dietrich's DMR barked and drilled a round into his shoulder sending him tumbling from view.

The woman stopped on the ladder and turned to see the LDC-SEC soldiers wipe out the remainder of her escort. She dropped back to the ground as Combat Team A surrounded her.

Sergeant Apone stepped forward with his rifle slightly lowered. "Ma'am, your our prisoner now but you'll be treated with the utmost respect. So if you'd kindly-"

The woman's cloak fell away to reveal a lithe figure in high end yet sturdy looking clothes and a sword which appeared in her hand from a sheath hung across her back.

"Ah hell!" Apone had no time to use his rifle so his arm came up to block the woman's opening underhanded slash that didn't penetrate the armor or sever his hand but threw it over his head and destabilised his stance. The woman spun around the sergeant and struck him in the back, sending him tumbling forward into the ground.

Completing her spin, the woman lowered herself into an offensive ready stance, sword pointed forward, as the others were all still training their weapons on her. Then, to the absolute shock and horror of the LDC-SEC soldiers, she vanished in a flash of green and white and reappeared not a yard away from James, the most isolated of the group.

James' eyes could hardly get any rounder as he blocked the first attack aimed at his neck on pure instinct and sidestepped the second intended to skewer him through the chest. He lost his balance and couldn't escape the third attack that swept his legs out from under him. The woman appeared over him sword poised to plunge through him. Her green eyes full of intensity, intent to kill.

Just as the sword began to descend, Drake appeared and tackled the woman away. James watched as the two began to fight for control of the weapon's hilt and started to pull himself up.

Drake managed to wrestle the woman down to the ground when she pulled another green and white vanishing act leaving Drake no choice but to hit the mud face first. She made her reappearance in the air immediately above Drake and brought her sword down on his lower back. It rebounded with a clang against Drake's armored harness leaving the woman stunned as another potentially incapacitating or lethal hit did nothing.

James, now back on his feet, used the distraction to whip the woman across the face with the top of his SMG. She staggered back from the hit and stumbled to a knee. James reaffirmed his grip on his SMG's stock and held it like a baseball bat ready to swing. The woman's eyes flashed with baleful green fire as James smashed his weapon across them. She collapsed back to the ground and went limp.

Combat Team A collectively breathed relief. James offered a hand for Drake to help himself up with and the latter accepted.

"Nice one, Private Maintenance," Drake said with more respect than before.

"Ok!" Apone stepped to the fore and boomed. "Package her up and let's move it back to base."

"Sarge," Dietrich called, "This place is still on Bravo's hit list and there's civilians here."

Apone nodded and ordered over the COM, "Wierzbowski, get a call up to command and tell them to scratch this target off Bravo's list. Cite civilian presence."

" _Yes, sir,"_ Wierzbowski answered, _"Also, Frost has eyes on a group of the enemy making a break for the forest to the east. Should we try to pursue?"_

"Negative," Apone said, casting a glance at the unconscious captive. "We've got something more interesting."

"There's no way we're somehow back on Earth." James muttered.

The ride back was uneventful and illustrated by the distant booms of Bravo's artillery. The captive had been lashed between the seats of the transport hog with James taking the rearmost seat. He glanced at the timepiece he had built into the tactical pad on his suit's forearm. Just shy of 2200 hours. A decent enough time for a nap and a good night's rest. James allowed his head to slip back and he dozed off.

/

The room was a dimly torchlit basement of cobblestone and a wooden roof that also served as the floor for the offices above. A massive oak desk stacked high with piles of papers and parchments dominated one area while the rest of the room was modest and sparse in furnishings.

A man was busy scribbling away at page after page. Moving them from pile to pile as the light in the room grew a shade brighter. A portal erupted into existence a few feet from the desk. The gale from which spilled several paper piles on to the floor and into the man at the desk's lap.

From the portal stepped a man in a black leather uniform. Once he was through the portal collapsed and he stomped over to desk with an air urgency.

"I am a royal messenger of the Empire of Nilfgaard with an urgent message for Enchantress Merigold. I require guidance to her residence," the man from the portal rattled off.

The man behind the desk sucked in a breath to contain his frustration and began going through the standard routine as master of the postal service. "Any unofficial correspondence you're carrying must be deposited in the receptacle by the main entrance and delivery can be expected within five to eight business days."

"I have nothing of that sort," the messenger said, "I have an urgent royal request for Enchantress Merigold that is a matter of imperial security."

"In that case guidance will be provided," the postmaster stated, "Though that service comes with a 30 florien fee."

"Charge the local embassy," the messenger dismissed and turned to leave.

"Ah, sir?" the postmaster called, "correspondence of this caliber require, by Koviri mandate, that the messenger sign a Release of Liability waiver in the off chance that you fail to deliver, Kovir is not at fault." The postmaster rummaged through one of the remaining piles of paper and pulled out a specific packet. He also uprighted a spilled inkwell, replaced the quill, and pushed both articles to the messenger.

"Please sign here, here, and here. Initials there, please. And now for me. Alright, you're all good," the postmaster smiled broadly. "Now sir, Madam Merigold's residence is located in the Upper Quarter and is a structure of Hengfors design. Should be easy to find. Have a nice night." The postmaster's smile only got wider as he memorized the messenger's impatient expressions.

The messenger exited the basement office and waited by the main door long enough to realize no guide was coming besides the directions the postmaster had provided. Grumbling about the delay, he ducked out of the post office and moved into the city.

Pont Vanis as a capital city was unremarkable in comparison to many others, including Kovir's winter capital Lan Exeter. Its squat architecture and coast hugging design put in a category more in line with drab Novigrad.

The messenger made it to the Upper Quarters with no issue and it was remarkable easy to identify the structure of Hengfors design as opposed to the surrounding Koviri residences.

The only problem was that there was several buildings of such make.

The messenger knocked at every one and received much the same answer of 'no enchantresses here'. He was on the verge of returning to the postmaster to demand actual assistance when the door he was currently knocking at opened.

"What do you want?" The gruff gravelly voice behind the words sent the hairs on the messenger's arms and neck on end.

"I am looking for the residence of Enchantress Merigold," the messenger said. "Is this it?"

"Could be," the person at the door said, "Why do you need to see her?"

"I have a message for her from the court of the Empire of Nilfgaard."

"Who sent the message, specifically?"

"Why, sir?"

"It'll determine if I let you in or not.'

The messenger cleared his throat, "The message was dictated by Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, head advisor to Empress Cirilla Fiona El-"

"Good enough." the door opened fully to reveal a well built man with a tied back mane of ash white hair, a face that resonated experience, and eyes with the pupils of a cat that emanated a soft yellow glow.

The messenger nearly backpedaled on recognizing the man but maintained his composure and accepted the invitation of entry. The white haired man led him to a firelit living room and took a seat in an expensive plush chair.

"Give me the message and I'll pass it along."

The messenger gave a slight bow and relayed the message exactly and it was spoken to him and the harrowing news involved.

The white haired man said nothing and stared at the messenger for an inordinate amount of time. Possibly in contemplation, before rising to his feet.

"Give us one hour and we'll have horses saddled and ready to go." he said.

"Sir." the messenger spoke up, "because of the developing and time sensitive nature of this incident, Lady Yennefer has demanded you and Enchantress Merigold are to travel by portal. I will meet you at the Nilfgaardian embassy here in Pont Vanis as I have reason to visit the site as well." The messenger, having concluded his business, bowed farewell and hastened out the door.

The white haired man grumbled and moved to a set of stairs built further into the residence. "I hate portals," he mumbled under his breath.

/

 **Conflict erupts, questions abound, and a fateful encounter is in the works.**

 **Fav, Follow, Review, and a Merry** **Christmas**


End file.
